Chuck vs the Seventh Day
by Notorious JMG
Summary: Team Chuck must stop a coup d'état in Washington. The plot is based on Fletcher Knebel's novel "Seven Days in May"; however, the story differs significantly.
1. Prologue

_**Chuck vs. the Seventh Day**_

**PROLOGUE**

Just before Christmas 2011, the world almost came to an end.

The Middle East had reached critical mass. The Taliban insurgency in Afghanistan was practically out of control. The United States and Russia had gone to each other's throats over Iran. Palestinian militants constantly lobbed rockets at Israel, and Israel responded with massive airstrikes.

Syria had launched a full scale invasion of Lebanon. Libya had gone directly to hell in a handbasket. Al Qaida was running rampant in Saudi Arabia. Jordan and Kuwait were doing the national equivalent of hiding under the covers and hoping for the nightmare to end.

And on December 17th, a small nuclear device was detonated in the Bedu wilds of Saudi Arabia.

It was in the middle of nowhere. It harmed nobody. Perhaps an unlucky Bedouin and his camel who happened to be in its path, but there was no physical damage, no loss of life, the only evidence that it had occurred being the half square mile of Saudi Arabian sand that had been turned into a sheet of blackened, radioactive glass.

Within minutes, the world had saddled up, locked, and loaded. Intercontinental ballistic missile bases in the United States, Russia, and China were receiving targeting packages. America's fleet nuclear missile submarines were received orders to go deep and prepare for launch.

Long range strategic nuclear bombers launched from air force bases around the world. India and Pakistan loaded their fighters with what nuclear weapons they had. Israel's entire nuclear inventory went airborne, as did South Africa's.

And yet, in the midst of it all, the President of Russia had the presence of mind to call the President of the United States and say, "This is insanity."

The United States and Russia stood down first. The stand-down of their forces mirrored each other, as they both stood down to pre-event defense conditions by Christmas Eve. With the two major nuclear superpowers at rest, the remainder of the world took that as a sign that they could breathe easy.

On New Year's Day 2012, the President of the United States brought a proposal to the Presidents of Russia and France, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and the Premier of the People's Republic of China – the leaders of the five nations that possessed intercontinental nuclear strike capability.

The proposal was simple – disarm. Destroy all land-based intercontinental missiles by the year 2020, and all sea-going missiles by the year 2025. There was an additional part of the proposal, but it was just a recommendation, not a requirement – destroy all nuclear weapons by the year 2050.

The thought of what could have been spurred the five countries to action. The five leaders met in Casablanca, Morocco, and put together a peace treaty within a week. All five nations immediately signed off on it, and submitted it to the United Nations for recommendation to all other countries.

Within a month, the world had gone from the brink of Mutually Assured Destruction to living on the eve of peace – the end of the nuclear age. It was a time for celebration, and for rejoicing.

For most.

There was a secret organization, formed during the Clinton presidency. They were a group of hardliners within the United States government who had bonded together during Bill Clinton's attempts to bring peace to parts of the world that they thought could never become peaceful – Palestine, Korea, Northern Ireland.

This organization thought that nuclear disarmament was a very bad idea. They likened it to neutering a dog, saying that it would strategically weaken the United States.

And so, they began to put into action a plan, a plan that had been drawn up many years before. This plan had been created in the event that it was thought that President could no longer serve. Under the plan, the military would take control – essentially a coup d'état.

With high ranking members ranging from the Joint Chiefs of Staff to the President's Cabinet to the NSA and beyond, this organization made a vow to keep America armed, to keep America strong. This organization would ensure that America remained the premier dominant superpower in the world long after the prominence of Russia and China had faded.

This organization had a very simple name. They thought that it was quite an appropriate name – after all, by its very definition, it was the single point upon which everything else hinged.

Fulcrum.


	2. Monday, Part 1

**_Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 1_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Sen. John D. Rockefeller IV - Victor Garber  
Sen. Langston Graham - Tony Todd  
Dr. Samuel A. Tyler, DCI - John Simm  
Gen. Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Sen. Lou DeBlasio - Michael McGrady

** February 13****th****, 2012**

The gavel in the hand of Senator John D. Rockefeller IV came crashing down on the desk, and yet another hearing for the United States Select Committee on Intelligence of the 112th Congress was underway.

Senator Langston Graham (I-NC) was the most junior member of this committee. As a first-term Senator who hadn't even completed two years, he ordinarily wouldn't have even been considered for this committee. However, as the former director of the Central Intelligence Agency, he had been considered a most valuable asset, and so had been tapped to replace his predecessor in the Senate, Republican Richard Burr, as a committee member.

Ordinarily, these hearings were the purest form of hell, especially when they were closed hearings. The closed hearings usually discussed classified matters which were not disclosed until the time of the hearing. Unfortunately, those classified matters were usually rather boring.

However, things were about to get very interesting. "Good morning," Senator Rockefeller said, greeting the other Senators and the few members allowed in the audience. "This morning's hearing is classified under United States Code Title Six. Any information revealed in this hearing may not be released to individuals with a clearance lower than 'Top Secret' under penalty of federal prosecution.

"This morning's hearing concerns a joint operation of the Central Intelligence Agency, National Security Agency, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Defense Intelligence Agency, Drug Enforcement Administration, and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, known as the Intersect Project."

Senator Graham sat up straight in his seat upon hearing those two words. His spine stiffened and his heart began to race.

"The Intersect Project has been funded for nearly eight years now, with little to no visible results. At the cost of nearly sixty million dollars per year, it is beginning to be a drain on the United States' combined intelligence budget. The purpose of this hearing is to determine the viability of the Intersect Project, and whether or not it should continue to be funded.

"We call first Dr. Samuel A. Tyler, director of the Central Intelligence Agency."

Sam Tyler was a short, thin man. His hair always seemed to be a little bit mussed, but he was always impeccably dressed – suits from Savile Row making him the image of much more than a government bureaucrat.

Born in Wisconsin, he had grown up in Manchester, England. When he returned to the United States to go to college, it was with a noticeable Mancunian accent. Nonetheless, he had been recruited by the CIA as an analyst with a huge amount of potential.

He had risen rapidly through the ranks, becoming Deputy Director (Intelligence) when the President had taken office in 2009. When Langston Graham resigned a year and a half later, Sam Tyler was promoted to DCI.

"Good morning," Tyler said, his peculiar accent coloring his speech.

"Mr. Tyler, you have been called before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence to testify regarding the Intersect Project. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"I so swear," Tyler replied.

"Very good," Rockefeller stated. "Now, let us begin. Can you please describe briefly the current composition of the Intersect Project?"

"The Intersect Project," Tyler began, "currently consists of two massive databases of government intelligence. One database, known as the Beta Intersect, is housed in a supercomputer at the headquarters of the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland. The other database, known as the Human Intersect, is housed in the mind of Charles Irving Bartowski of Los Angeles, California."

Rockefeller frowned. "Mr. Bartowski is the owner of a highly successful video game company, is he not?"

Tyler nodded. "That is his civilian persona. However, he is an asset of the United States government, and has been for just short of five years. He was identified as a potential CIA asset while a student at Stanford University due to his incredible capacity for subliminal image recognition and retention; however, his recruiting process was cut short when he was expelled from Stanford.

"The Alpha Intersect was penetrated and destroyed in 2007 by a rogue CIA agent. He uploaded the entire database into an e-mail, which he then sent to Mr. Bartowski. Mr. Bartowski unwittingly opened the e-mail and was exposed to all of the subliminal imagery contained within the Intersect. His capacity of image recognition and retention allowed him to absorb all the images into his brain. Certain visual and aural stimuli will cause his brain to access certain intelligence within the Intersect, causing him to be a very valuable asset.

"We have attempted to duplicate this process with other individuals; however, we have yet to find another individual with the same ability for retention as Mr. Bartowski. As a result, he is currently considered an irreplaceable asset, as we are able to periodically 'update' his brain with the same intelligence with which we update the Beta Intersect.

"Upon discovery of the database in his brain, he was assigned a handler from the CIA and from the NSA. His original CIA handler was Sarah Walker, a CIA deep-cover operative who, while having an excellent service record and three Intelligence Stars on her portfolio, was considered somewhat of a loose cannon and almost a liability to the agency. Her inability to maintain a distinction between her professional and personal lives caused her to develop feelings for and eventually fall in love with Mr. Bartowski. She was removed as his handler and reassigned to analysis duty shortly before they married in 2009; she was replaced as his handler by Agent Michael O'Halloran.

"His NSA handler was and continues to be Lieutenant Colonel John Casey, United States Air Force Reserve. Colonel Casey was originally assigned to the Intersect to potentially terminate him; however, he has become an invaluable part of what is informally known as 'Team Chuck'.

"In February of 2008, then-director Langston J. Graham and NSA director General Diane Beckman launched an operation known as Project Moab, an ill-advised attempt to place the Human Intersect in custody in a remote location and use him as an intelligence asset only. However, Mr. Bartowski thoroughly refused to cooperate, and shortly thereafter, Agent Walker and Colonel Casey mounted an extraction operation to remove Mr. Bartowski from custody. Though they, along with Bartowski's sister and brother-in-law, committed numerous felonies, they all received sweeping pardons from President Bush, who wished to avoid a public relations fiasco."

At the mention of Graham's name, the head of every Senator in the room had turned toward him. "Senator Graham, do you care to shed any light on this incident?" Senator Rockefeller asked him.

"Yes, sir," Graham replied. "At the time that we placed Mr. Bartowski in custody, he was under constant threat from a domestic terror organization known as Fulcrum. We believed that he would be safer in custody than he would if he were allowed to continue to live a normal life in Los Angeles. We did not anticipate his utter refusal to cooperate.

"When Agent Walker and Colonel Casey managed to infiltrate our Utah facility and extract Mr. Bartowski with a minimum of losses, we came to the realization that there was nowhere that he would be completely safe and that he would probably be better protected under the eyes of a team of agents."

Sam Tyler had rolled his eyes and snorted when Graham uttered the word "Fulcrum". "Senator Graham," he said, "even the existence of this Fulcrum organization has never been proven, let alone the idea that it is a threat."

"Uh, I'm sorry to interrupt," came a voice from the back. "General Diane Beckman, National Security Agency. There is proof of the existence of Fulcrum. They now and have always wanted to possess the Intersect, simply for the intelligence it contains. They are a credible threat to the Intersect."

"Words, General Beckman," Tyler shot back. "I need to see proof!"

"I'm sorry," Beckman replied, "but the proof is classified beyond even the clearances of the Senators in this room. To reveal it would be to basically throw the Intersect upon the mercy of Fulcrum."

"General Beckman," Senator Rockefeller said, "to begin with, you are out of order. However, I must ask, are you saying that the men and women of this committee cannot be trusted to keep the secrets of the National Security Agency?"

Beckman stared back at him. "Senator Rockefeller, no disrespect, but I trust nobody, let alone any member of this committee. The only person in this room that I would come close to trusting is Senator Graham, and him only because we did work together for several years on the oversight of the Intersect project."

"But that's just it!" Director Tyler interjected. "The NSA's refusal to trust anybody has led to a huge overrun on costs for this program, because in addition to Agent O'Halloran and Colonel Casey, a team of twenty Secret Service agents constantly monitors Mr. Bartowski. He is unaware of them, but they are always there.

"Their presence is unnecessary. There are currently no CREDIBLE threats to Mr. Bartowski. I am aware that we must reduce the costs of this program to keep it running, and it must be kept running. Mr. Bartowski is an enormous asset, and we cannot afford to lose this program.

"It is my professional opinion that we should reduce the number of Secret Service agents designated to Mr. Bartowski from twenty to four. This will allow assets and resources to be freed up for other missions, and will cut the annual cost of the program by more than half."

"Thank you, Mr. Tyler," Senator Rockefeller said. "Do you have anything else to add?"

"No, sir," Tyler replied.

"Do any other members of the committee have questions for Mr. Tyler?"

"I do, Mr. Chairman," said Senator Lou DeBlasio (R-UT). Senator DeBlasio was an ex-officio member, having become the Ranking Member on the Armed Services Committee when the President took office in 2009.

"Mr. Tyler," Senator DeBlasio said, "can you tell me exactly what this Intersect project has done for the United States?"

"The Intersect has, on numerous occasions, allowed us to intercept and interdict the entry of multiple terrorist and narcotic-related organizations and individuals into the United States," Tyler replied. "It has also allowed us to, on a number of occasions, preempt events of disastrous proportions, including the attempted assassinations of General Leland Stanfield and Senator Edward Kennedy."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," DeBlasio replied, "but approximately ninety percent of the Intersect's activities have been in the greater Los Angeles area, yes?"

Tyler nodded slowly. "Yes, that's correct, but as one of the busiest ports in the United States, in addition to its proximity to the Mexican border, Los Angeles has a much higher incidence of attempted terrorist and narcotic activity than any other city in the country."

"Nonetheless," DeBlasio shot back, "I'm kinda wondering exactly what good the Intersect does for the people of this country – like, say, the people of the great state of Utah."

Graham's jaw dropped. DeBlasio was turning this into a political thing. Tyler's face had taken on a look of panic. He looked over at Graham, his eyes saying, _Help me please!_

As much as Graham disliked Tyler, he knew that the man needed defense against DeBlasio. "If I may, Senator DeBlasio," Graham said, rising from his seat and stepping down to the floor, "the events that the Intersect has helped deter have been greatly to the benefit of the entire country.

"Let's start with the attempted assassination of General Stanfield, shall we? Stanfield was the commander-in-chief of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization at the time. His death would've had repercussions not just in the United States, but across all of Europe as well.

"The attempted assassination of Senator Kennedy occurred immediately after his endorsement of Senator Barack Obama in the 2008 Presidential campaign. Had the assassination attempt been successful, it undoubtedly would have been seen as racially motivated, and could have sparked rioting the likes of which we have not seen since the 1960s.

"Bartowski's intelligence was instrumental in uncovering an NSA agent who was in the employ of North Korea, preventing a priceless diamond from falling into the hands of Al Qaeda, removing a particularly irritating cell of the Chinese Triad while convincing one of the PRC's top intelligence agents to defect, and blowing open the cover of nearly twenty members of the Russian Mafia, resulting in their arrests. All that occurred within the first six months after he became an asset, and you'll notice that I did not use the word 'Fulcrum' once."

DeBlasio shrugged. "All well and good," he replied, "but I still don't see what that does for the soccer moms in Salt Lake City."

Graham shook his head. "This operation transcends politics," he said in frustration. "It goes beyond the good of a state to the greater good of the American people."

DeBlasio stared daggers at him. "The greater good of the American people is a white picket fence, a Chevy and a Toyota in the driveway, a chicken in the pot, and two point five children at the dinner table. As far as I'm concerned, if this isn't benefiting the citizens of Utah, then it's not benefiting the country."

He took a moment to look across at the entire committee. "What I am about to say you can consider an edict from the Armed Service Committee," he informed them. "The Intersect project is to be cut to twenty million dollars, effective immediately. I want you to figure out a way to either wrap the project up or expand its scope beyond Los Angeles by the end of fiscal year 2013."

Graham stared at DeBlasio in shock, and he noticed Tyler standing up beside him. Senator Rockefeller looked confused.

"Uh, we will take a brief recess," he said. "When we return, we shall discuss the matter further."

He banged the gavel, and the committee members began to depart the room. Sam Tyler leaned forward.

"This is gonna be a problem," he muttered to Graham.

Graham chuckled mirthlessly. "You think?"

* * *

**____****Author's Note:** the character of CIA Director Sam Tyler is based on Detective Chief Inspector Sam Tyler from the BBC television series "Life on Mars." However, beyond name and mannerisms, he is not intended to be the same character as portrayed in the original series.  



	3. Monday, Part 2

**_Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 2_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Dr. Ellie Bartowski Woodcomb - Sarah Lancaster  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Dr. Devon Woodcomb - Ryan McPartlin  
Maya McCarthy - Christina Hendricks  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski

**February 13****th****, 2012**

Lieutenant Colonel John Casey, United States Air Force Reserve, was a dedicated individual. He had gone to the University of Wisconsin – Madison on an Air Force ROTC scholarship. Recruited by the National Security Agency just before graduating high school, he became an NSA agent upon graduation from college, while serving in the Air Force Reserve.

He was proud to show up for his one weekend a month and two weeks every summer. It gave him the opportunity to do some flying, and he was happy to do so in whatever they threw at him, whether it be an F-16 or a simple T-38.

He hadn't yet gotten the opportunity to fly the F-22 Raptor, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, that's what this letter from the Air Force, marked "Official" was all about. Casey doubted it, given that he was pushing forty, but he could hope, couldn't he?

Casey was somewhat disappointed when he opened the letter. Nope, it wasn't an invitation to go fly an F-22 for a weekend. In fact, it wasn't even a flying op at all. It was a notification that on Monday, February 20th, he was to report to March Air Reserve Base in Riverside for an exercise based on the Emergency Communications Control protocol, abbreviated in the letter as ECOMCON.

He frowned. It was rare for him to have not heard of a military protocol – as an NSA agent, almost everything the military did was available for his review. However, from time to time, the occasional thing slipped through the cracks. Nonetheless, he was sure he would've heard about a protocol that regarded communications control.

Casey didn't have time to worry about that right now, though. It was his turn to host poker night, and the Bartowskis and the Woodcombs would be over within half an hour – apparently bringing with them a sort of "blind date" for Casey. "She's a real looker," Ellie Woodcomb had promised him. "And, she likes guns and crappy old Fords, so you two should get along quite well."

Casey had bristled at the "crappy old Ford" remark, but had been intrigued by the idea of a woman who liked guns, especially if she was as attractive as Ellie Woodcomb seemed to promise.

And the funny thing was, he trusted Ellie's judgment. He only had her judgment on Sarah Walker to base that off of, but she had been so incredibly right on her prediction of things to come for Sarah and Chuck long before anybody else that it was hard to NOT trust Ellie.

Quite honestly, Casey had come to regard the Woodcombs and the Bartowskis as family long before. He rarely admitted to it, but he would do anything for his "family" – including die for them.

When Chuck and Sarah's twins had been born a little over a year before, they had asked Casey to be their godfather. He had been so taken aback and moved by the request that he had actually teared up while holding their newborn son, John – named after him.

Of course, he refused to admit that the incident in the maternity suite at Cedars-Sinai had ever happened, but the Bartowskis knew the truth. They tried not to give him too much crap about it, though – after all, he was still a pretty mean customer.

A knock at the door interrupted Casey's reverie. He crossed to the door and opened it.

Chuck Bartowski stood there. "You're early," Casey grunted.

"What can I say," Chuck replied. "We showed up to drop John and Lisa at Ellie's apartment, and, well, things got a little out of control."

Devin's sixteen year-old cousin Bethany was babysitting John and Lisa, along with Ellie and Devin's baby girl, Katie. "Everything was good, but then, just as she was about to put him down, John decided to pee all over Sarah," Chuck continued, trying to keep a straight face.

Casey couldn't help it – he burst out laughing. "THAT's my boy!" he chuckled. "Piss on the CIA!"

Chuck smiled, too. "Oh, he thought it was hilarious. You should've seen him – laughing his head off while this stream just poured out of his diaper onto Sarah's shirt."

"Let me guess – Walker, not so amused?"

"Not so much," Chuck confirmed, shaking his head. "She's over with Ellie right now, trying to find a top that'll fit."

Casey raised an eyebrow. "That… might be a challenge," he said.

And that was true. When Sarah had been pregnant with the twins, she had gone from a C to a D cup. After the pregnancy, she got back into shape fairly quickly, but for some reason, that particular aspect of her anatomy never went back to its previous size.

Chuck didn't mind. Chuck didn't mind one bit. For Sarah, however, it was somewhat of a nightmare – literally a back-wrenching one. Not only that, but it made her even more of a target for disgusting men leering at her all across Los Angeles.

There was another knock at the door, and Casey went back to open it. It opened to reveal Ellie, Devin, and a woman Casey hadn't seen before – and Ellie was right, she was in fact a looker.

And behind them was Sarah Walker Bartowski, wearing a baggy UCLA ΦΔΕ shirt – one of Devin's old pre-med fraternity t-shirts. She looked annoyed as she walked into the house.

"Sarah, you don't look too happy," Chuck said.

"You could say she almost looks… pissed?" Casey cracked. Chuck grinned, and Devin let go a full-blown guffaw at that.

Sarah turned to Chuck and Casey. "Both of you SHUT UP," she hissed. "I am not in the mood!"

Ellie sighed. "Well, this evening's just getting off to a GREAT start, isn't it?" She turned to the woman standing next to her. "Maya McCarthy, this is John Casey. John Casey, Maya McCarthy – she's a radiologist at City of Angels."

"A pleasure to meet you, John," Maya said, extending her hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, too," Casey replied, taking her hand and surveying her like the intelligence agent he was. About two inches shorter than Walker, she had the darker skin of a long-time Angeleno, but emerald green eyes and bright red hair that befitted her very Irish last name.

"So, what do you do, John?" Maya asked.

"Well, I'm the general manager of the Burbank Buy More," he replied – he'd rapidly risen through the ranks, being appointed G.M. of the store just before Thanksgiving 2011. "I'm also a lieutenant colonel in the Air Force Reserve."

The NSA had recently given him the O.K. to tell people that he was in the Reserves. He had never really understood why they hadn't wanted him to tell people, but he hadn't argued.

Maya looked at him closely. "John Casey… John Casey… you're not the John Casey who was a technical advisor on _Mindnode_, are you?"

Casey looked down at the floor. _Mindnode_, the film that George Clooney had made based on Chuck's wildly successful video game, had been a runaway success at the box office. It had starred Lee Pace, Kristen Bell, and Gareth David-Lloyd – and one Lt. Colonel John Casey had been credited as a technical advisor on the film.

"Yes, indeed, that was me," he said. "I'm surprised you recognized my name – I was buried so deep within the credits that it's almost impossible to find."

"What can I say," she replied. "I'm good with spotting subliminal things. I have an amazing retention rate on subliminal imagery."

When Chuck heard her say that, he froze. Looking over the top of his beer bottle, he shot a look at Sarah, who had a poorly suppressed look of alarm on her face.

He took action. "It's pretty interesting when things intersect like that, isn't it?"

Behind him, Sarah rolled her eyes and shook her head, although she hadn't been able to think of anything better. There was no reaction from Maya McCarthy, though. Either the word meant nothing, and this was a remarkable coincidence –

Or she was a highly trained agent.

These same thoughts had registered in Casey's mind, but he filed the whole thing as a coincidence. There was no way there was a second human Intersect – just none at all. The images on the Beta Intersect had been encrypted so as to not register to a human brain, and the data from the Alpha Intersect had been destroyed during Walker's first sloppy infiltration into Chuck's apartment, all those years before.

"Hey, what do you say we play some poker?" Devin asked, interrupting Casey's reverie.

"Sounds good to me," Chuck replied.

They always played teams, and tonight happened to be men versus women. The game was Texas Hold 'Em, and by nine o'clock, the men's collective pot was maybe a third the size of the women's. They were getting their collective ass kicked.

The men called a timeout and retreated to the kitchen. "We gotta strategize if we're gonna come back from this," Devin insisted.

Casey gave him a strange look. "How exactly are we supposed to strategize at a card game?"

"Bluffing – which the Chuckster is horrible at – and well-placed bets," Devin replied. "Chuck, from now on, you need to fold unless you've got a great hand, because you can't bluff for crap. Casey and I will handle that. We all need to control our bets, not let the women get us riled up, not let them drive the bet up."

Chuck made kind of a _what the hell_ gesture with his hands, but didn't argue the point – Devin was right. Instead, he stepped back to the refrigerator to get another beer. His eyes fell upon the letter attached to the fridge with a magnet.

"Hey, Casey, you got called up?" Chuck asked, reading over the letter. "An exercise at March Air Res-"

His eyes fell on the word ECOMCON, and then rolled back in his head.

A series of images flashed in his mind's eye – a memo dated March 1998, a series of pictures of President Bush, a nuclear detonation, and a map of the United States with red criss-crosses all over it. Finally, an image of a piece of apple pie appeared, so he knew the flash was coming to an end.

But not before one last image appeared – a long operations plan, which scrolled by slowly. Chuck absorbed the entire thing before it disappeared.

"Dude, are you okay?" Devin asked. He was standing right in front of Chuck.

"Yeah," Chuck gasped. "Uh, can you go out in the living room and send Sarah in here, please?"

"You sure you're-"

"DEVIN! I need you to go right now!" Chuck shouted.

Devin looked taken aback. Chuck had never talked to him like that before, so he knew it had to be serious. He turned and walked to the living room. A moment later, Sarah walked through the kitchen door.

"What exactly is going on?" she asked.

"We have a very, very large problem," Chuck replied, pulling Casey's call-up letter off of the refrigerator. "You see this?"

"It's Casey getting called up for an exercise," Sarah said. "So?"

"It's not an exercise," Chuck shot back, shaking his head emphatically. "You see this acronym here at the bottom – ECOMCON?"

"It stands for Emergency Communications Control protocol," Casey interjected. "What's going on?"

"I flashed on ECOMCON," Chuck answered. "The first thing I saw was a memo, written in 1998, telling how the country's entire communications network – landlines, Internet, cell phones, radio, everything – could be taken offline if need be. Then, I saw a picture of several people who must be higher-ups – I don't know who any of them were.

"But here's the worst part," he continued. "The last thing I saw was a full operations plan for ECOMCON. Basically, it's run out of Fort Bliss, in Texas. They take all communications nationwide offline. While communications are down, the US military's senior officers and the civilian administration – in other words, the White House – go to the Mt. Weather Emergency Operations Center in Virginia.

"But it's not just a protocol," Chuck said. "It's an actual full-scale plan for a coup d'état. Once the President arrives at Mount Weather, he's to be removed from power. The military then takes over, and with communications down, there's no way to stop them. This isn't supposed to be run as an exercise, either – the organization that drew up these plans made that quite clear. It's only supposed to ever go ahead if they're actually going to remove the President. And if I'm not mistaken, that's going to happen next Monday."

Sarah and Casey both looked shocked. Sarah was the first to recover. "Chuck, you said the 'organization' that drew up these plans. Was it a branch of the military? Was it the DIA?"

"Oh, no," Chuck said, laughing bitterly. "Much worse than that."

He looked directly into his wife's eyes. "This plan was put together by Fulcrum."


	4. Tuesday, Part 1

**_Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 3_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin

**February 14****th****, 2012**

Chuck and Sarah had ended up leaving Casey's not too long after the flash the night before. Chuck had claimed he had a headache, which really wasn't entirely untrue.

Casey had not been pleased with the fact that they were just up and leaving, insisting that the Powers That Be needed to be notified. Sarah and Chuck had both disagreed with this assessment, Chuck reminding Casey that it was after midnight on the East Coast, and Sarah saying that with a week to go till the plan was supposed to be executed, it could wait a few hours.

But then had come the real fun part. Devin's cousin Bethany clearly didn't know the first thing about children, because she had let Katie, John, and Lisa all have soda – REGULAR, fully caffeinated soda.

And so, for the entire drive home to Studio City, John and Lisa were practically bouncing off the walls in the back of the Dodge – or at least, they would've been if they hadn't been in carseats. Sarah was not amused, and Chuck's headache just seemed to be getting worse.

However, by the time they got home, Sarah was so cranky that Chuck, despite his headache, volunteered to stay up with the kids until they fell asleep. Sarah had given him a grateful smile, and warned him not to stay up too late – "I have the feeling the next few days are going to be very interesting," she said.

John and Lisa were up till almost midnight, watching the mind-numbing crap known as _Bob the Builder_. "How can they watch this garbage?" Chuck muttered to himself.

John overheard him and turned an accusing eye on his father. "Ba mu be ta!" he replied angrily.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak fifteen month old," Chuck sighed.

Lisa, annoyed at being interrupted, also turned to her father. "Ba mu be fee!" she snapped. "La doo bay fa bu!"

John looked over at her – and actually NODDED, as if he understood his sister. "Seriously, what are the two of you saying to each other?"

John just smiled, and turned back to the television. Lisa actually rolled her eyes, and turned back as well.

"You are JUST like your mother sometimes," Chuck muttered.

Finally, just after midnight, both of the twins dozed off. Chuck stood up, picked them both up, and took them down the hallway to their bedroom. He gently laid John down in his crib, and then laid Lisa in hers.

He had suddenly lost the desire to sleep himself, though. The ECOMCON memo kept running itself through his head.

Chuck decided that he was going to get the whole thing written out. He was going to make himself flash on it until he had it all.

He sat down at the computer and fired up Microsoft Word. Once it was up, he looked down at the keyboard, typed out "ECOMCON" and looked back up at the screen.

And there it was again – the memo, the pictures of President Bush, the nuclear detonation, the criss-crossed may of the U.S., the piece of apple pie.

As soon as the last image disappeared, Chuck shook his head and started typing.

_To the President:_

_The purpose of the Emergency Communications Control protocol is to restrict the flow of information across the country. All signals – land telephone, cellular telephone, radio, and Internet – can be stopped if necessary._

_This program can be initiated from a specially designated ECOMCON command center. The council has recommended Fort Bliss, Texas, due to its central location and abundant space._

_This protocol should only be used in an extreme emergency, or in the event of the interruption of the chain of command. These… these… these…_

Chuck's mind went blank, and he sat there, the blinking cursor mocking him.

"Shit," he muttered. Sighing, he typed ECOMCON again, and looked up at it.

The images flashed by again, and as soon as they disappeared, he started typing again.

_These events may cause a national panic, and while interruption of communication may in and of itself cause panic, it is likely to be less of a panic than the widespread dissemination of information regarding such an event._

_Respectfully submitted,_

_Brigadier General Diane Beckman, National Security Council_

"Huh," Chuck said, when he typed out that last part. "So General Beckman came up with this idea originally? I bet she has no idea what it's being used for now."

Then he decided it might not be a bad idea to have that operations order typed out as well. Bracing himself, he typed ECOMCON yet again and looked at it.

The images flashed by again, but when it reached the operations order, rather than flashing and disappearing, it froze. He furrowed his brow. He could see the computer monitor, but the op order seemed to be superimposed on it.

Chuck stared at the op order for a moment, and then looked toward the bottom of it. The op order began to slowly scroll down.

"This is a little freaky," he whispered. The Intersect had never done anything like this before. Looking to the top of the op order, he scrolled it back to the top, and began typing.

_5 March 2008_

_From: Naval Field Section, FULCRUM_

_To: Commander, FULCRUM_

_Re: Intersect Failure and Operation ECOMCON_

_We have now failed four times to bring the Intersect under FULCRUM control and custody. There is no question that the Intersect database resides in the brain of Charles Bartowski of Los Angeles, California. However, the doggedness and tenacity of his handlers, Sarah Walker and John Casey, was unexpected. They have been relentless in their defense of Mr. Bartowski._

_Losses with regard to the Intersect project have reached an unacceptable level, and as the President has now taken a personal interest in Mr. Bartowski's well-being, the council recommends that we suspend any further attempts to bring the Intersect under our control. With the imminent launch of the Beta Intersect, Mr. Bartowski may not be necessary to us. Given the inordinate amount of attention focused on him by the administration, it may be in our best interest to simply forget about him._

_Regarding Operation ECOMCON, extensive studies have shown that with the entire communications network disabled, it would be entirely possible to remove the administration from office and replace the President with the military general officer of our choice. With the entire civilian administration sequestered at Mount Weather, they would have no real choice but to do whatever we said. While it is unlikely that this will ever be necessary, given President Bush's stance on all things military, and given that the Democratic Party is currently self-destructing, it would be wise to have this plan ready to go at a moment's notice._

_Our person on the National Security Council has recommended implementation of ECOMCON as a national emergency protocol. The NSC has agreed wholeheartedly with this recommendation; obviously, they are unaware of the ulterior purpose of the ECOMCON protocol._

_However, given the sensitivity of the ECOMCON protocol… protocol… protocol…_

The operations order faded from Chuck's view. His head was pounding, but that wasn't what concerned him. He had been astonished to read the first two paragraphs – they were almost completely about him!

But four attempts to get the Intersect? Chuck counted in his head. One – Bryce's infiltration of the Greenbelt facility. Two – Tommy's attempt to remove him from the Buy More, when Bryce had shown up. Three – Lizzie's attempt to kidnap him off the helipad in downtown L.A.

So what was four?

Chuck tried to think of any attempts that he just somehow hadn't noticed. Then he looked at the date on the op-order.

March 5th, 2008.

The day after he had been extracted from the facility in Moab, Utah.

Chuck's eyes widened as he realized the ramifications. "No way," he whispered. "It couldn't possibly be!"

But it was just too much of a coincidence. General Beckman's signature on the NSC memo. Project Moab. The date on the op-order.

"God," Chuck breathed. He looked over at the clock. It was just after 4:00 AM.

He had been sitting there, ever so slowly transcribing the Fulcrum op-order, for nearly four hours.

"Holy crap!" he muttered. But he had to finish the job.

He typed ECOMCON one last time, and glanced up at it.

The flash took longer this time, and it was painful. There were also weird images mixed in with it – images that didn't belong. An image of a black jet, tail ablaze, screaming toward the Australian desert. An image of an ice cream truck exploding in front of Chuck's house. An image of Sarah's Porsche burning.

He shook his head, trying to shake off those rather disturbing images, and get back to the op-order. Finally, it reappeared, just as it had the first time.

Quickly, Chuck scrolled down to where he had stopped.

_However, given the sensitivity of the ECOMCON protocol, it must never be executed except in the event of its actual use. An exercise could prove disastrous, both in that FULCRUM members might mistake it for the real thing, and in that it could be uncovered by the administration, effectively bringing an end to FULCRUM._

_In the unlikely event that this must forward, we must ensure that the plan has support from a minimum of one Cabinet-level secretary, one Supreme Court justice, and one ranking Senator, so that there is an apparent agreement between the three branches of the government in this effort. Without this support, the ECOMCON protocol will be doomed to failure._

_To reiterate, it is extraordinarily unlikely that the ECOMCON protocol will ever be executed. That is why it must remain dormant, with no exercises, unless the day comes when the plan must go forward._

_Respectfully submitted…_

And that's where the document faded. It didn't disappear – Chuck just couldn't read the end of it. He blinked, trying to make it appear, but no luck.

Chuck shook his head to clear the image. He felt like his brain was throbbing within his skull. He looked at the clock again – 6:30.

Chuck sighed. He had been up all night with no sleep. His head was killing him, and he had the most damning document of all time sitting in a Microsoft Word document in front of him.

But he had something he needed to do – something that, as far as he was concerned, preempted everything else. Saving the memo and the op order as "", he closed Word, and headed out to the garage.

Opening the large refrigerator in the garage, he moved aside the case of Heineken on the lower shelf, reached in, and retrieved the dozen long stem roses and the box of Godiva chocolates he had stashed there yesterday. Coup d'état afoot or no, it was still Valentine's Day, dammit.

Setting the roses and chocolates on his workbench, he opened his toolbox. He figured this was as safe a hiding place as any – Sarah kept all of her "tools" separate, and quite frankly, he didn't want to know what most of those tools were used for.

Reaching in, he withdrew the small paper-wrapped package. Unwrapping the paper towel he had put on it for protection, he pulled out a small blue box. Grabbing the roses and the chocolates, he detoured to the kitchen to grab a vase and fill it with water, and then headed for the master bedroom.

Sarah was still asleep, on her side, facing her nightstand. Perfect. Chuck set the vase on the nightstand, then placed the roses in it. He set the box of chocolates next to it, and then set the blue box in front of that. He carefully opened it to reveal the ring inside – a platinum band, with a ½ carat diamond set in the middle, sapphires on either side of it.

Chuck crossed to the other side of the bed, and carefully leaned over. Perfect again. It would be right in Sarah's line-of-sight when she opened her eyes. And it was about time for her to open her eyes.

Crawling into the bed carefully, so as not to wake her quite yet, he slowly slid under the covers and curled himself up behind her. Then, gently placing his hand on hers, he kissed her on the shoulder, on the neck, behind her ear – spots that were sure to bring her slowly from the land of sleep.

And within a few seconds, a "Mmmmm," escaped from her mouth, and a smile played across her lips. Her hand twisted around, her fingers intertwining themselves with Chuck's.

"Good morning," he whispered into her ear. Slowly, Sarah's eyes cracked open, and she took in the view on her nightstand.

"Oooh, that's pretty," she murmured sleepily. "Is it for me?"

He smiled. "Well, it won't fit on my hand."

That drew a quiet laugh from Sarah. She reached over to the nightstand, and retrieved the box. "That is shiny," she said.

Chuck's smile got a little bigger. "Shiny as in _Firefly_ shiny or as in sparkly and shiny?"

"Little of both, probably."

With a laugh, he reached over her. Plucking the ring from its box, he took her right hand and slid it on to her ring finger.

"I definitely like," she whispered, finally rolling over to face him.

"Happy Valentine's Day," Chuck replied.

Sarah smiled. "The world could be going to hell in six days, but you still take the time out to make sure the little details of life get taken care of."

She lifted a hand to his face, and slowly drew a finger along his cheekbone. "That's why I love you so much."

Chuck smiled, and then Sarah rolled back over, grabbing the remote control for the television. It was part of her morning ritual to watch CNN each day.

The television snapped on, showing a live shot of an aircraft carrier. _USS _Dwight D. Eisenhower, the caption said. "We're onboard the USS _Eisenhower_," the reporter was saying. "The new commander for Combined Task Force 77 is arriving shortly. A veteran of both Iraq Wars, Commodore Forrest Saxon has a long and distinguished service record..."

Chuck's eyes glazed over upon hearing the name "Forrest Saxon". The op order scrolled itself in front of his eyes one more time.

_That is why it must remain dormant, with no exercises, until the day comes when the plan must go forward._

_Respectfully submitted,_

___Captain Forrest Saxon, Naval Field Section, FULCRUM_  



	5. Tuesday, Part 2

**_Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 4_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Dr. Samuel Tyler, DCI - John Simm  
Morgan Grimes - Joshua Gomez  
Father Mike O'Halloran - Titus Welliver  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
General Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Captain Jack Drexler - Jamie McShane

**February 14th, 2012**

After discovering how volatile the situation really might be, Sarah had placed a call. The call bypassed Chuck's CIA handler, Father Michael O'Halloran, going directly to CIA Director Sam Tyler.

When Sarah read him the memo and the op order over the secure line, he had practically hit the roof. He told her and Chuck not to move. He told them to get O'Halloran and Casey to their house as fast as humanly possible. Then he told them that he would be in Los Angeles in six hours.

True to his word, just over six hours later, there was an insistent banging on the door. Chuck opened it to reveal Director Tyler, looking like he'd swallowed a hot coal.

"Do you have any fucking idea what the implications of this are?" he exploded, the moment Chuck opened the door.

"Uh, if you don't mind too terribly, I have two fifteen month olds sitting in this room who I would prefer to not be exposed to profanity quite yet," Chuck replied sarcastically.

Tyler frowned, and looked over at the couch. There sat John and Lisa, watching Sesame Street. John smiled, and Lisa waved. "Uncle" Morgan, who was supposed to be watching them, dozed on the end of the couch.

Sam Tyler waved back at them half-heartedly. "Fine," he said, resuming his tirade. "Do you have any f-u-c-k-i-n-g idea what the implications of this are?"

Chuck looked at him with irritation in his eyes. "I believe I do, yes," he replied. "Can we take this into my office?"

Tyler sighed, but followed Chuck to the office. Sarah, Casey, and O'Halloran were all waiting there, and it became a bit of a tight squeeze when the two men walked into the room.

"Afternoon, all," he grumbled.

"And a good afternoon to ye as well, sir," Father Mike O'Halloran chirped back cheerfully.

"Do NOT start with me, O'Halloran," Tyler growled. "I am NOT in the mood."

Casey finished the necessary procedures to bring up a video conference on the plasma screen on Chuck's wall, and a moment later, General Beckman appeared. "Alright, what the hell is going on?" she demanded. "If this was big enough for Director Tyler to actually personally fly to Los Angeles, it has to be huge."

"General Beckman," Chuck began, "I flashed on a memo you wrote fourteen years ago regarding the feasibility of shutting down the nation's communications network in the event of a severe emergency, so as to prevent a national panic from spreading."

She nodded. "Yes, the Emergency Communications Control memo," she said. "I was on President Clinton's National Security Council, and was asked to draft a memo to that effect."

Chuck nodded. "Well, it seems that Fulcrum got their hands on that memo and have subverted it to a plan to overthrow the administration – a plan which they intend to put into effect next Monday afternoon."

Beckman's eyes widened. "Son of a bitch!" she shouted. "Now do you believe that Fulcrum exists, Tyler?"

Sam Tyler looked at her sullenly. "I still have my doubts," he replied, "but I'm beginning to come around."

Beckman put her hands to her head. "This can't be happening," she moaned. "Not after all I've put into my career."

Taking a deep breath, she looked back up. "Alright, I need to know how you know that they're actually going to do this, and that they're going to do it next Monday."

Chuck nodded. "The op-order I flashed on stated specifically that this was never to be run as an exercise, only as an actual mission. As far as how I know it's going to happen next Monday – Casey received a call up letter from March Air Reserve Base telling him to report on Monday for an exercise known as the Emergency Communications Control protocol, or ECOMCON."

Beckman shook her head. "Well, there it is then."

Sarah spoke up for the first time. "Do we have any idea who might be involved with this? The op-order specifically mentioned people from the military, in addition to the cabinet, the Senate, and the Supreme Court."

Beckman sighed again. "I really have no idea," she said. "If we're talking military, you might want to start with Melvin Powers –"

"The chairman of the Joint Chiefs?" Casey exclaimed. "As in, the commanding general of the United States Air Force?"

"Yes, Casey, your titular boss and mine," Beckman responded. "He has been a very vocal critic of the nuclear disarmament treaty, and has made it quite clear that he intends to run against the President as an independent this fall. Maybe he's decided it's just easier to go about it this way."

"Senate's easy enough," Sam Tyler interjected. "Lou DeBlasio, without question. He wants to shut the Intersect project down, yesterday pretty much. With no Intersect, there's no self-aware intelligence database to prevent this from going forward."

"Director Tyler, that's a pretty bold accusation to make," Beckman stated. "Senator DeBlasio is the ranking minority member on the Armed Services Committee."

"And you saw him at the Intelligence Select Committee hearing, General," Tyler snapped. "He pretty much threw me, Senator Graham, and the Intersect to the wolves."

"He's also been very critical o' the treaty," Mike O'Halloran added. "Very critical."

"Agent O'Halloran," General Beckman replied, "if we were to suspect everybody who was critical of the treaty, we'd have forty percent of the United States population on our list."

"Yes, but who in positions of power have been critical?" O'Halloran persisted.

Beckman stared back at him. "Let's see, approximately thirty percent of both houses of Congress, three Supreme Court justices, about half of the President's own cabinet, and a large portion of the military-industrial complex, NOT TO MENTION twenty-three governors. Shall I go on?"

Suitably chastised, O'Halloran shut up. "Alright," Beckman said. "So we have only one firm name to go off of – Forrest Saxon."

"Yeah," Chuck replied. "His name was at the bottom of the op-order I flashed on."

Beckman shook her head. "Commodore Saxon is a highly decorated navy veteran," she sighed. "He's one of the few aviators currently in the military who has achieved 'ace' status. And he commands Combined Task Force Seventy-Seven. Do you understand what that means, Mr. Bartowski?"

"It means he commands a task force that consists of a Nimitz class aircraft carrier – specifically the USS _Eisenhower_ – two Ticonderoga AEGIS missile cruisers, four Arleigh Burke class destroyers, two Oliver Hazard Perry class frigates, a Los Angeles class fast attack submarine and a Virginia class fast attack submarine, in addition to numerous support ships," Chuck shot back. "How'd I do?"

"Your technical knowledge is impressive, Mr. Bartowski," Beckman replied, "but your knowledge of tradition clearly is not. CTF-77 has been the aircraft carrier battle and strike force of the Navy's Seventh Fleet for nearly seventy years. It has engaged in battle in World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, Desert Storm, and Operation Iraqi Freedom. It spent four years off the coast of Vietnam, launching dangerous air operations – perhaps you've heard of Yankee Station?"

Chuck was himself beginning to look chastised. "My point, Mr. Bartowski, is that Commodore Saxon was appointed to be the commander of CTF-77 because he is a highly respected naval fleet officer. We can't just waltz into the South China Sea and accuse him of being a traitor."

"Okay, okay," Chuck replied, "but what about this? If he was, as the op-order said, the naval section chief for Fulcrum, wouldn't it make sense for them to want him to stay in Washington? The South China Sea is an AWFULLY long way away. What if he decided to back out, and there's a higher ranking naval officer who got pissed and had him sent basically to the other side of the world?"

Beckman leaned back, thoughtful. "That's a pretty far-fetched theory, Bartowski, but it does have a certain logic to it." Chuck nodded. "So, what do you propose we do then, Mr. Bartowski?"

Sarah interrupted. "Send an agent to the USS _Eisenhower_, have that agent talk to Commodore Saxon," she replied. "See exactly what he knows. If Saxon really did get the boot from Fulcrum, he might be willing to help us. If he's still part of Fulcrum… well, we've dealt with that before."

"True," Beckman replied. "We need an agent, though, who is pretty much a stone-cold killer and has extensive experience with Fulcrum for something like this."

Chuck, Casey, and Sarah all said the name simultaneously. "Bryce Larkin."

Sam Tyler's head jerked up. "NO," he snapped. "I am NOT sending one of my best field agents off on some cockamamie wild goose chase."

"Director Tyler, this is not a cockamamie wild goose chase," Beckman replied. "Bryce Larkin has more experience than anybody with Fulcrum. He has personally taken down twenty of their agents. If Saxon is a Fulcrum agent, he can deal with him. If he's not, Larkin can get him to tell us exactly who's involved."

Tyler closed his eyes and sighed. "Fine. I'll issue the order."

"Good," Beckman replied. "Is there anything else for right now?"

Nobody had anything to add. "Very well," she said. "I have some work to do. If there are any further developments, contact me IMMEDIATELY."

And with that, she signed off.

Tyler turned to Chuck and Sarah. "There is a CIA armory team on the way," he told them. "They're going to install armor in the walls of your house and cars, along with bulletproof glass."

Chuck's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "What?" he replied in shock. "You're going to turn my house into a fortress and my Dodge into a tank? I grew up in Los Angeles, for God's sake!"

"I don't care if you walked through MS-13 territory every day on the way to school," Tyler shot back, getting very close to Chuck, "you are a priceless government asset, and Agent Walker represents a massive investment on the part of the government. If Fulcrum, or Al Qaeda, or the Crips and the Bloods, or Manchester United, or the goddamn Wizard of Oz wants to take the two of you out – I don't bloody care, they're bloody well going to have to bust their asses doing it."

Chuck looked over at Sarah. She nodded, and he turned back to Tyler.

"Fine," Chuck breathed. "Do whatever you need to do."

Tyler nodded. "I was going to anyway. Now, I need to use the video conference again."

"Go right ahead," Chuck replied. "Mi casa, su casa, although it's pretty clear that you assumed that long before you ever stepped through the door."

"I'm sorry, Bartowski, but do you have a problem with me?" Tyler asked, turning back to face Chuck.

"Who, me? Why should I have a problem with the man who walks in my front door, yells 'fuck' in front of my two kids, decides to turn my house into Fort Knox and my cars into Bradleys, and then decides he's free to use my shit in my Nerd Cave? No, no problem at all, you little troll!"

Chuck had gotten visibly very agitated while ranting, and now he was standing as close to Tyler as he could without actually touching him. His fists were clenched by his sides, and his face was red.

Casey and Sarah just sort of looked at each other worriedly. Chuck towered several inches over the CIA director, and Tyler, being an analyst rather than an officer, would probably get his ass kicked in a one-on-one fight.

Of course, Tyler, being the director of the CIA, was also making no indication that he planned to back down. He stood toe to toe with Chuck, his fists also clenched, a vein standing out on his forehead as he stared up at the taller man.

But Mike O'Halloran's Catholic seminary-trained common sense intervened at that point. "I think that'll be enough o' that, ye two," he said, stepping between them. "Bartowski, stand down. Director Tyler, all due respect, but ye have better things to do with yer time than argue with an asset."

Chuck glared at O'Halloran, and then looked back at Tyler. "I'll be in the living room with my kids," he spat, stomping out of the room.

Sarah sighed deeply, and followed Chuck. "Director Tyler, I believe ye have a call to place to get Agent Larkin movin', don't ye?" O'Halloran reminded him.

* * *

When Sarah reached the living room, though, Chuck wasn't there – just the two kids. "Where's Daddy?" she asked them.

John and Lisa both pointed at the front door. Sarah walked to the front door and pulled it open.

"- just a TV show, Chuck!"

"It was _TORCHWOOD_, Morgan! For God's sake, why didn't you just throw on a porno for them to watch?"

"Chuck, come on, man."

"Morgan, no. I'm sick of this. I'm sick of putting up with your shit. I'm sick of you being a slacker, and I'm sick of my family tolerating your crap."

"Chuck!" Sarah shouted. "That is enough!"

Chuck was breathing raggedly. It was clear that he was incredibly angry, but he needed to be brought down to size. "Just because you're pissed at Director Tyler, and the CIA, and this whole situation doesn't mean you can take it out on Morgan! He's your best friend, for Christ's sake!"

Morgan looked at Sarah, a look of shock still on his face. "No, Sarah, he's right, I mean –"

"No, Morgan. Well, yes. You shouldn't have been watching _Torchwood_ with the kids, and we might need to talk about that. But everything else he said, he had no right to say that. You've been just as good a friend to Chuck, and to me, as we have to you."

Chuck had a look of shocked amazement on his face. "Excuse me? I have no right to tell Morgan he's a slacker?"

"No, Chuck, you don't," Sarah said, turning to face her husband. "Who encouraged you to go out with me that very first time? Who encouraged you to pursue me? Who told you not to give up? Who was by your side no matter what happened the last four and a half years?"

The words gradually registered with Chuck, and his face fell. He turned back to Morgan. "I am so sorry…" he said softly.

Morgan nodded. "Don't worry about it, dude. I understand. You're under all kinds of stress right now, from time to time you're gonna blow off some steam."

"Thanks, Morgan," Chuck replied. "Listen… don't worry about the _Torchwood_ thing. I'll talk to Sarah about that."

Sarah smiled. "Oh, really," she said.

"Hey, don't let me get in the middle of some sort of marital argument," Morgan said. "I gotta go – I'm supposed to pick Anna up in fifteen minutes anyway."

He walked to the curb, jumped in his old GMC van – Sarah had jokingly dubbed it the Mystery Machine, just because of the way it was painted – and rumbled off down the street. Sarah turned to Chuck.

"You can't do that to him," she said softly. "Morgan's been through too much with you for you to do that."

Chuck's whole body seemed to droop, and his eyes became fixed on his worn out old Converse trainers. "I know," he replied quietly. "I guess… being up for thirty-six straight hours, and all the flashes I had last night, and everything with Director Tyler… I shouldn't have taken it out on him."

He looked up again, and his eyes were glistening. "Thank you for stopping me," he said. "I mean… thank you."

Sarah stepped up next to him and wrapped her arms around Chuck, embracing him tightly. "That's why I'm here," she said quietly. "You know, that whole 'to have and to hold, for as long as we both shall live' bit?"

She looked up at Chuck, and he smiled down at her. "That's why I love you so much," he said, echoing her words from that morning.

Sarah stood up on her tiptoes and kissed Chuck briefly. "Happy Valentine's Day," she replied.

* * *

"Captain Drexler to comms. Repeat, Captain Drexler to comms. You have a priority-one communication."

Captain Jack Drexler, US Navy, was commander of Carrier Air Wing Seven, currently embarked on the USS _Eisenhower_. He was also asleep when the message came through.

Sighing, he got up. Throwing on a pair of slippers, he made his way to the communications room. "Yeah?" he asked, stepping inside. An ensign handed him a phone.

"Captain Drexler, this is Fulcrum command. Do not respond to anything I say. A CIA agent by the name of Bryce Larkin will be arriving on the _Eisenhower_ tomorrow to speak with Commodore Saxon. After Larkin speaks with Saxon, arrest the Commodore and place him in the brig, and eliminate Larkin, however you best see fit. If you understand, hang up the phone."

Captain Drexler hung up the phone. Years had passed since he had been recruited into Fulcrum, but notification of the ECOMCON exercise had gotten him ready for just about anything. And now, things were going forward.

* * *

"If you understand, hang up the phone."

There was a click in the earpiece. The phone line went dead.

The hand that held the phone replaced it in its cradle. Rising, the caller crossed to the bathroom, opened the door, and turned on the sink.

A splash of water to the face, maybe to feel a little more human.

The final mission was six days away still. Before then, though, Team Chuck had to be eliminated in its entirety. Larkin would be taken care of on the aircraft carrier, but how to deal with Casey, and O'Halloran, and Walker, and Bartowski himself? For that matter, how to deal with Director Tyler?

The unspoken questions rang hollow, because General Diane Beckman had no answers for herself.


	6. Interlude, Midnight

**_Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Interlude 1_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski

**Just after midnight**

**February 15****th****, 2012**

Chuck sat bolt upright in bed. "No way," he breathed.

Sarah had been awakened by his sudden movement. "What is it?" she asked groggily.

"The video conference earlier," Chuck replied, excitedly. "General Beckman said that the only name we had set in stone was that of Commodore Forrest Saxon. But I hadn't said a word about him yet!"

Sarah sighed. "Chuck, are you sure you didn't mention the name earlier in the conversation? You did talk at length about the op-order."

"Positive," Chuck replied. "She knew the name before I ever said it."

Sarah sat up and looked him in the eyes. "But you read the entire thing to Director Tyler earlier in the day, didn't you?"

"Oh," Chuck said. His shoulders sagged, the excitement leaving his face. "Yeah, I did. He probably gave her a copy of it, huh?"

Sarah nodded. "Come on, Chuck, let's get some sleep."

Chuck lay back down, and curled himself up against Sarah as she lay down as well.

He smiled. "Actually, I'm not sure I'm ready to go back to sleep quite yet."

Sarah smiled as well, but hers was more of a smile of tolerance. "Not now, Chuck."

"Aw, come on."

"Chuck, not now. We need to go... we need... ohh... mmm... oooookay..."


	7. Wednesday, Part 1

**_Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 5_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer  
Dr. Samuel Tyler, DCI - John Simm  
Lt. Comm. Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Corporal Rockport - Ben McKenzie  
Commodore Forrest Saxon - Gabriel Byrne  
Captain Jack Drexler - Jamie McShane  
General Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin

**February 15th, 2012**

**1:30 AM, Pacific Standard Time**

Running. Always running.

It seemed like Bryce Larkin had spent the last four and a half years of his life running, always running. Even now, as the Dassault Falcon 7X business jet winged its way westbound, he was running away from the rising sun.

Bryce thought for a moment about the missions that this very aircraft had carried him on. The glossy black Falcon had been purchased by the CIA two years before the FAA had even certified its type. Its first mission had been the combination disaster and success that was the mission to remove a corrupt Brazilian government.

That had been followed with a trip to London which, Bryce later found out, was a cover for the assassination of Alexander Litvinenko. It had been used again a few months later for the mission to Belfast to prevent the assassination of Martin McGuinness. And it had been used for one final trip, when Bryce was thought to be dead, and Sarah Walker had flown from Langley Air Force Base to Bob Hope International Airport in Burbank to "retrieve" the Intersect.

Since then, the Falcon had been pressed into service on other missions, but it had somehow found its way back to Bryce for this one – and he wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad sign.

Bryce had been in Seattle when he got the call from Director Tyler – "Drop everything you're doing and report to Boeing Field by 11:00 PM," he'd been told. And so Bryce had, arriving just in time to watch this wraith from his past land.

He had been quickly briefed on his mission by Director Tyler, who had come with the Falcon but was flying back to Washington commercially. "You'll stop to refuel on Guam," Tyler had said, "and continue on from there to Diego Garcia. On Diego Garcia, you'll be met by a US Navy C-2 Greyhound, which will take you to the USS _Dwight D. Eisenhower_.

"Onboard the _Eisenhower_, you will speak with Commodore Forrest Saxon. He's the commanding officer of CTF-77, but we believe him to be a Fulcrum agent. If that is the case, you are to eliminate him. However, Charles Bartowski –"

"Chuck?" Bryce asked in surprise. "Chuck's involved with this?"

"Long story, which I don't have time for," Tyler snapped. "Bartowski has put forth a theory that Saxon wanted out of Fulcrum, and so he ended up being posted as far from Washington as they could put him. If that's the case, I need you to get as much information about the senior officers of Fulcrum as you can out of Saxon."

And so, as the Falcon approached the tiny British territory of Diego Garcia, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, the first tendrils of pink were appearing on the eastern horizon behind Bryce – the dawn of a new day.

As the Falcon touched down on the airstrip, Bryce looked out the windows, and briefly considered how much of a contrast the Falcon must be – a jet black aircraft in the midst of all these slate gray US aircraft and bluish-gray British aircraft. He smiled at the utter irrelevancy of his thought.

The Falcon taxied up next to a small, twin-propeller aircraft that looked like it had been designed to take a beating. A C-2 Greyhound, based on the same body that the E-2 Hawkeye airborne warning aircraft used – both, in turn, designed for use on aircraft carriers.

"Bryce Larkin?" he was asked by a woman in a flight suit as he approached.

"That's me," he replied.

"I'm Lieutenant Commander Rachel Harrison, Fleet Logistics Support Squadron 40," she introduced herself. "I'm your pilot today."

She got Bryce into the aircraft, and helped him strap into the jumpseat behind the co-pilot's seat. She then handed him a helmet and a headset, which he donned quickly. "Can you hear me, Mr. Larkin?" she asked.

"Loud and clear," he replied. "And please, call me Bryce," he added, letting a little bit of flirtatiousness slip into his voice.

She laughed. "Alright, Bryce. I don't know if you've ever experienced a flight in a carrier onboard delivery aircraft before –"

"First time!"

"- then you might want to hold on to your ass, Bryce," she said cheekily.

Bryce laughed as well. Commander Harrison was pretty good looking – he didn't mind flirting with her, not one bit. Especially since he had all but lived the life of a monk since his "death and resurrection" four years prior.

He snorted at the irony of that. Jesus Christ he certainly was not, but boy had he paid for his decision to take on Fulcrum.

The C-2A Greyhound seemed like it had to struggle to get off the runway, and then it felt like it was going to stall the entire time it was climbing. Bryce expressed concern, but Commander Harrison assured him that it was perfectly normal flight performance for the Greyhound.

"I'd hate to see abnormal performance," he muttered.

Twenty minutes after taking off from Diego Garcia, the Greyhound began to descend again. "Okay, Bryce, this is where it gets fun!" he heard Commander Harrison say over his headset.

"Oh, joy."

The Greyhound descended at a far steeper angle than Bryce was used to, and when it hit the deck of the _Eisenhower_, it felt for all the world like the plane had crashed. He heard the turboprop engines throttle up to full power – and then he felt like his eyeballs were going to be ejected from his skull, as the Greyhound's tailhook caught the number three cable, jerking it to a stop.

"Welcome to the _Eisenhower_, Bryce," Commander Harrison said, more than a little humor in her voice.

"Is it always that rough?" he asked her, removing the helmet and headset.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I'll have you know, that was one of my better landings – right on the ball all the way in, and a number three cable snag – pretty much a textbook perfect landing."

Bryce shook his head. "I'd hate to see a bad one, then."

As they disembarked from the Greyhound, two Marine Corps lance corporals were standing on the deck. They saluted Commander Harrison, and then one of them – his nametag said "Rockport" – turned to Bryce. "Mr. Larkin?"

"That's correct."

"We're to escort you to Commodore Saxon."

"Lead the way, Corporal Rockport."

Bryce was led through a rabbit warren of steel corridors, ladders, and pipes, a Marine before and a Marine behind, until he was thoroughly lost. Finally, Corporal Rockport stopped in front of a door that said, "Commander, Combined Task Force 77". Rockport knocked on the door.

"Come," he heard from within.

Rockport opened the door, allowed Bryce to enter the office, and then closed it again.

When Bryce stepped into Commodore Saxon's office, he was astonished. The office was huge, and it was opulent – at least half again as big as Director Tyler's office, and furnished like a New York penthouse. It was certainly not what he had expected to see onboard a Nimitz class aircraft carrier.

"Bryce Larkin," Commodore Saxon said. "Agent Bryce Larkin, if I'm correct?"

"Yes, sir," Bryce replied.

"I'm Forrest Saxon," the commodore replied. "I was alerted that you were coming by General Beckman."

"Then, Commodore Saxon, perhaps you have some idea of why I'm here."

Saxon gave him a look. "Coffee?"

"Yes, thank you, sir," Bryce replied.

"Cream, sugar?"

"Uh, no thank you on both."

Saxon crossed to a silver coffee service set on the side of the office, poured Bryce a cup, and handed it to him. Then he walked behind his desk, pulled out his chair, and sat. He indicated with his hand that Bryce should do the same, on the opposite side.

Saxon looked across the desk at Bryce. "In January of 1999, I was the executive officer of Carrier Air Wing Eight," he began. "I had been tapped for command of the wing when the commander retired.

"On January 18th, I was at the Pentagon, and I was approached by the commander of Combined Task Force 88, Rear Admiral Frederick C. McConnell. You know that name?"

"Of course," Bryce said quietly. "He's the Chief of Staff of the United States Navy."

"Yes, he is," Saxon replied. "He also recruited me into the organization known as Fulcrum."

Bryce's eyes widened. "The Chief of Staff of the US Navy is part of Fulcrum?"

Saxon laughed bitterly. "Oh, Agent Larkin, that's just the tip of the iceberg. I can tell you seven other very powerful men and women who are part of Fulcrum."

"Why exactly would you want to do that, Commodore Saxon?" Bryce asked, more than a little puzzled.

"Have you ever heard of something called ECOMCON, Agent Larkin?"

Bryce shook his head. "ECOMCON is the abbreviation for the Emergency Communications Control protocol. It was proposed in 1998 as a method of taking control of all communications networks throughout the US – landlines, cell phones, radio, Internet. However, the actual purpose of ECOMCON was far more sinister – it was to be used as a distraction while the military removed the President from power."

Bryce's eyes widened. "An op-order was written for it in 2008," Saxon continued. "I wrote that op-order, and now, Fulcrum has decided to execute it. They are very unhappy with the nuclear disarmament treaty, and have decided that it's time for the President to be removed from power."

Bryce's jaw dropped. He was sure he looked like an idiot, but he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"The plan to use ECOMCON was proposed after the President came up with the disarmament treaty," Saxon said. "Despite the fact that I wrote the op-order, I objected vehemently. The President is a patriot. He's a war hero, he was a naval aviator. The thought of removing this President from power using this plan is utterly abhorrent to me."

Bryce just shook his head. "This… this is unbelievable."

"It's why I was assigned to CTF-77," Saxon replied. "I had been working in the Pentagon. I was on my way up, probably destined for great things in naval aviation, but when I voiced my objections to the plan, that was it. Even though I didn't technically change in rank – I'm still a one-star flag officer – commodores have always been considered lower than rear admirals, which is what I was. In fact, I'm the first 'commodore' the US Navy has had in quite a while."

Bryce took a deep breath. "Wow."

"So, you want to know the rest of the high muckety-mucks Fulcrum's got?"

Bryce reached into his jacket, withdrawing his Sony Vaio UX. "Go ahead," he said, pulling out the stylus.

"Alright," Saxon replied, taking a deep breath. "General Melvin Powers, Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The plan is to install him as President once the President is removed from office."

Bryce was scribbling furiously with the stylus. "Okay?"

"General Robert Kellerman, Commandant of the United States Marine Corps. Admiral McConnell, like I said. Linda Foster, Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security. Marianne O'Hare, Secretary of Defense."

Bryce looked up at Saxon. "That's three of the Joint Chiefs, and the two cabinet secretaries most closely connected to the military."

He frowned. "What about General Stanfield?" General Leland Stanfield, after his tenure as the C-in-C of NATO, had become the Chief of Staff of the US Army.

Saxon shook his head. "Leland Stanfield has absolutely nothing to do with Fulcrum or ECOMCON," he replied. "He's going to be one of the first people relieved of duty when Powers takes over."

"I take it you don't approve?"

"No, I don't," Saxon said bitterly. "Leland Stanfield has served his country for forty years. His task as NATO C-in-C was not an enviable one, having to oversee operations in Afghanistan and Iraq."

Bryce nodded. "You said there were seven besides Admiral McConnell? So who are the other three?"

"Ian Noble, Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court. Lou DeBlasio, junior senator from the state of Utah, ranking minority member on the Armed Services Committee. And General Diane Beckman, director of the National Security Agency."

Bryce's mouth fell open again. His hand went limp, the stylus clattering off the computer and dropping to the deck. He stared at Commodore Saxon for a moment, and finally croaked, "What?"

"She's not aware that I know," Saxon replied. "Most members of Fulcrum aren't aware that she's part of the organization. They only know her as 'Fulcrum Command'. But Admiral McConnell got rather drunk at a party and let it slip."

Bryce couldn't speak for a moment. His mouth just refused to form words. Finally, he breathed, "Jesus fucking Christ."

Saxon looked at Bryce intently. "You're not safe here, Agent Larkin. You need to get off this ship, and you need to find a different way back to the United States."

He opened a desk drawer, and withdrew two envelopes which he handed to Bryce. One of the envelopes had a wax seal on it, with the seal of the Department of the Navy engraved in it. "The sealed envelope is written documentation of the entire affair," Saxon told him. "It contains the op-order, the details of the plan, and a list of all the senior members of Fulcrum.

"The other envelope is a TDY order for Lieutenant Commander Rachel Harrison, your pilot on the C-2 Greyhound. It places her under your command until further notice. Harrison and her plane are yours to use as long as you need. Just don't get back on the plane you came to Diego Garcia in."

Bryce stood, his hands still shaking. Leaning over, he picked up his stylus, which he reattached to his computer. The computer went back in his jacket pocket, along with the two envelopes.

"Thank you, Commodore Saxon," he said, his voice quiet.

"Don't thank me," Saxon replied. "I'm a traitor, it's as simple as that. Just swear to me one thing."

"What's that?"

"That you'll stop these maniacs," Saxon said. "Stop them before they destroy the United States, because mark my words, if this happens, it will be the end of our country as we know it."

* * *

The jet black Dassault Falcon 7X lifted off from the runway at Diego Garcia two hours later. It headed east, homeward bound.

Some time after taking off, two F-14 Tomcats from the USS _Dwight D. Eisenhower_ fell into formation behind the Falcon. Immediately, the Falcon took evasive maneuvers, diving and heading toward the southwest. The Tomcats, designed nearly forty years before by Grumman, were nonetheless still far more agile and quick than the Falcon, and they easily outmaneuvered the business jet.

As the Falcon screamed over the coast of Australia, the APG-71 radar in the nose of the lead Tomcat locked onto the Falcon. "Fox three," the weapons system officer said, pressing the launch button for one of the four AIM-54 Phoenix radar-guided missiles that hung from the Tomcat's wings.

The missile blasted off the Tomcat's wing and rapidly accelerated. It was still accelerating toward its top speed of Mach 5 when it impacted the tail section of the Falcon.

The missile's warhead exploded, viciously ripping the tail mounted engine and the vertical stabilizer from the business jet. A gout of flame exploded from the rear end of the aircraft, as it completely lost control and spiraled toward the desert below.

"Dachshund-1 to base," the pilot radioed. "Target is down. Repeat, target is down."

* * *

Onboard the USS _Dwight D. Eisenhower_, Captain Jack Drexler, the commander of CVW-7, acknowledged. "Copy that," he said, personally replying to the pilot of Dachshund-1.

He turned and walked to the door of the Combat Information Center. The same two Marines that had earlier escorted Bryce Larkin to see Commodore Saxon fell in behind Captain Drexler as he headed toward the Commodore's office.

Without knocking, he opened the door. "Commodore Saxon," Captain Drexler said without preamble, "you are under arrest for charges of treason and conspiracy. You are hereby relieved of duty."

Lance Corporal Rockport stepped forward and cuffed Commodore Saxon, leading him out of the office. Saxon didn't look shocked, or surprised – just resigned to his fate.

As the Marines escorted Commodore Saxon to the brig, Captain Drexler went to the communications center. Stepping inside as he had the night before, he gave the comms operator a series of instructions that would connect him to a phone somewhere in the United States.

* * *

**February 15th, 2012**

**3:15 PM, Eastern Standard Time**

The STU-8 secure phone on General Beckman's desk rang. It was a distinctive ringtone, indicating a certain type of call.

"Fulcrum Command, secure," she answered it.

"Sea One, complete," she heard, and then the line disconnected.

Beckman depressed the hook on the STU-8, and when it released, began to dial a number in the 323 area code.

* * *

**February 15th, 2012**

**12:17 PM, Pacific Standard Time**

His cell phone rang. Removing his surveillance headset, he rose and crossed the room. Picking the phone up off his desk, he answered it.

"This is Casey, secure."

"Colonel Casey, this is General Beckman. We have a serious problem."

"What's the situation, General?"

"Walker and Bartowski have gone off the reservation. You are to terminate them immediately with extreme prejudice."


	8. Wednesday, Part 2

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 6_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
General Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Devon Woodcomb - Ryan McPartlin  
Ellie Bartowski Woodcomb - Sarah Lancaster  
Morgan Grimes - Joshua Gomez

**February 15****th****, 2012**

**12:17 PM Pacific Standard Time**

Casey's cell phone rang. Removing his surveillance headset, he rose and crossed the room. Picking the phone up off his desk, he answered it.

"This is Casey, secure."

"Colonel Casey, this is General Beckman. We have a serious problem."

"What's the situation, General?"

"Walker and Bartowski have gone off the reservation. You are to terminate them with extreme prejudice."

And the line went dead. John Casey's hand slowly came down from the side of his head, as he looked at the cell phone in his hand like it was a poisonous snake.

"The hell I will," he whispered.

* * *

Chuck's computer beeped, indicating that he had just received an e-mail. The announcement said that it had come from Bryce Larkin.

His eyes widened. "Sarah!" he shouted. "I just got an e-mail from Bryce!"

Sarah came running into the room, a child clutched in each arm. "What does it say?" she asked, worriedly.

Chuck clicked on the e-mail, and it opened. There was an attachment – "", it said.

"It's an encrypted e-mail," Chuck replied, double-clicking on the attachment. Sure enough, a new window popped up. "The terrible troll raises its sword," it said.

"Here we go again," breathed Chuck, as he typed in "Attack troll with nasty knife."

But no series of flashing images filled his screen. Instead, a video of Bryce appeared.

"Chuck, I need you to listen to me very carefully," Bryce's image said. "I am on the run from Fulcrum right now with a US Navy pilot and her aircraft. Commodore Saxon is not, repeat NOT Fulcrum any longer, but he told me who is. I'm assuming Sarah is there with you, so tell her to look away when this video ends, because I'm sending you an Intersect update with everything you need to know. To trigger the flash, you'll need to go to Google image search, search the phrase 'banana daiquiri', and click on the fourth image option that appears."

The image went black, and then Bryce reappeared. "Oh, yeah, make sure you turn the moderate safesearch filter on Google on, you perv."

Chuck's face turned bright red as the screen went black again. Then, three bold white words appeared:

"SARAH LOOK AWAY."

So she did. And then, the screen went crazy. For the next five minutes, a series of rapid fire images assaulted Chuck's brain – and then, without warning, they came to an end.

Chuck sat, looking at the computer, seemingly catatonic. Sarah turned to look at him. "Chuck? Are you okay?"

He said nothing – and then she realized that John and Lisa were being strangely quiet. She looked down at them –

Both of them had their eyes fixed on the computer screen. Both of them had absorbed the entire Intersect update. "Oh God," Sarah whispered, horrified.

But then, John blinked and shook his head. He looked up at Sarah and smiled. Lisa, on the other hand, started to cry.

The noise brought Chuck out of his catatonia. He shook his head. "Banana daiquiri," he muttered, pulling up Google image search – and setting the filter to "moderate".

Sarah noticed that. "And exactly why was safe search off, mister?" she asked, keeping a light and teasing tone in her voice despite the severity of the situation.

"Uh, I have no comment in this matter," Chuck replied, as he typed in banana daiquiri and hit enter. He went across to the fourth picture and clicked on it –

And froze again, his eyes rolling back as the flash was triggered. John, who had gotten down and was crawling around on the floor, didn't even notice – but Lisa had exactly the same reaction as her father. She instantly stopped crying as, Sarah assumed, she began to flash on the same thing Chuck was flashing on.

They snapped out of it right at the same time. Chuck took a deep breath, and Lisa looked up at her mother with wide eyes. "Ful-cum," she intoned solemnly, and then she began to cry again.

Chuck's head whipped around when he heard that, and he looked from Lisa to Sarah and back again. "What did she just say?"

"Chuck, I think they both absorbed the Intersect update," Sarah replied. "Lisa saw the trigger image, and I think she had a flash, just like you."

Chuck's jaw dropped. "Are you telling me that Lisa has the same capacity for subliminal image retention that I do?"

"And probably John as well – Chuck, they ARE your children," Sarah said.

"Well, we'll talk about it later," Chuck replied, distractedly. "We've got a huge problem. General Melvin Powers, General Robert Kellerman, Admiral Fred McConnell, Secretary Linda Foster, Secretary Marianne O'Hare, Justice Ian Noble, and Senator Lou DeBlasio are all Fulcrum."

"Ho-ly shit," Sarah breathed, forgetting about her own children, still in the room.

Chuck's face had taken on a grim appearance, and his mouth was set in a thin line. "But that all pales in comparison with the fact that Fulcrum Command is General Beckman."

Sarah's heart felt like it had stopped. The blood drained from her head, and she began to wobble. Chuck stood up quickly, grabbing Sarah before she could fall, and gently taking Lisa from her arms, setting the little girl on the floor.

That's when the lights went out. Everything went dark. Chuck's computer switched over to its battery backup – but his Firefox window, autorefreshing the Google page, suddenly went to a "404 page not found."

"Uh-oh," Chuck breathed, a feeling of dread filling him. "Power's out… Internet's down…" He picked up the phone on his desk. "Phone's dead…" He pulled out his cell phone. "And no signal."

"Chuck, we need to get out of here right now," Sarah said, alarm in her voice.

And that's when the sound of automatic gunfire pierced the calm afternoon.

* * *

Casey had armed himself for war. He had body armor on, and he had loaded the Suburban with enough weaponry to invade a small country.

Strapping on the twin S&W .357s he always carried, he slung his Saiga-12 shotgun over his back, and headed out of his apartment, locking it behind him. He crossed the courtyard to the Woodcombs apartment, and banged on the door.

Devin answered the door. "Hey, John – what the hell?"

"Is Ellie here?" Casey asked.

"Uh, yeah – what's going on?"

"The two of you and Katie are in a great deal of danger," Casey replied. "I need you to get Katie and her carseat and come with me right now."

Devin looked into Casey's eyes and knew immediately that he should not argue with him. "Ellie!" he yelled. "Get Katie, get her carseat, get the diaper bag! We need to go right now!"

When Ellie appeared in the door, her first words were, "What the hell are you talking about?" But Casey was gratified to see that she had Katie in one arm, the carseat in her hand, and the diaper bag slung over her shoulder.

"The director of the NSA has ordered a hit on your brother and Sarah," Casey said. "I'm afraid they might come after you as well. We need to get in the Suburban and get the hell out of here as quickly as we can."

Ellie's eyes went huge. "What about Chuck and Sarah?" she said.

"That's our next stop."

* * *

The sound of a great many bullets pinging off the front of the house echoed throughout the building.

Sarah glared at Chuck. "Now aren't you glad that Director Tyler insisted on installing that armor and bulletproof glass last night?"

Chuck was very glad, but he didn't say anything. He and Sarah were both on the ground, John being protected by Chuck's body and Sarah by Lisa's.

"We need to get the kids into the Dodge," Sarah said. "They'll be behind two layers of armor that way."

"Agreed," Chuck replied.

Staying low – despite the armor on the house, neither of them was taking any chances – the two stood, clutching their children in their arms. Quickly, they exited the back door of Chuck's office and darted across the laundry room, through the garage door.

Chuck unlocked the doors of the Dodge with his remote, and they put the two kids in their carseats, buckling them in and shutting the doors behind them. Still low, Sarah crept to the window in the garage door, where Chuck joined her a minute later.

The gunfire had stopped. "I think they've figured out that we're bulletproof," Chuck whispered.

"Yeah, I think so too," Sarah said, pointing at the man standing on top of the ice cream truck parked in front of the house. He was assembling a rather nasty looking launch assembly.

"They came in an ice cream truck?" Chuck asked in disbelief.

"It's an effective cover," Sarah muttered, as the man finished putting the launcher together, and aimed it at the front door. "Get down!"

A moment later, there was a tremendous BOOM as the anti-tank missile hit the front door of the house, breaching the armor and blowing open a hole. "We've got to get out of here, right now!" Sarah hissed, running for the Porsche. "I'll create a distraction – you take the Dodge and get out of here!"

Chuck's eyes went wide. "No! You can't go out there and distract them! I mean, what if something happens?"

Sarah stopped and walked back to him, fire blazing in her eyes. "This is what I DO, Chuck!"

"NO!" Chuck shouted. "You are my wife, you are THEIR mother" – he indicated the twins – "I cannot just let you run out there and sacrifice yourself this way!"

"I am doing this because I love you and because I love them!" Sarah yelled back, tears beginning to pool in her eyes. "Now I need you to get in the Dodge, and be ready to take off as fast as you can as soon as the Porsche is out in the street!"

She grabbed the back of Chuck's head and pulled him to her, kissing him furiously. In a way, it was very reminiscent of their first kiss, on the San Pedro Docks – full of fire, full of passion, with imminent doom close at hand.

* * *

Casey slammed on the brakes in the middle of Moorpark Street, bringing the Suburban to a stop right before St. Clair Avenue, cars swerving around him, horns blowing, middle fingers flying. He looked to his right, locking eyes with Devin. "Switch places with me," he ordered the younger man, jamming the gearshift into park.

Devin didn't argue, just unbuckled his seatbelt and moved over into the driver's seat, as Casey crouched between the two seats. "Ellie, I need you to hand me the long gray box in the back seat," Casey instructed.

Ellie reached back and grabbed the box, handing it to Casey. Casey opened it up, and withdrew a Stinger missile launcher as Devin put the Suburban back into drive. Casey rolled down his window, extending the launcher out the window and watching it for lock-on as Devin took the left turn onto St. Clair.

Casey could see the NSA strike team outside of the house. Foolishly, all but one of them were standing on their vehicle. The Stinger gave him a lock tone.

"Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker," Casey breathed, pressing the launch button.

The air-to-air missile blasted out of its launch tube, covering the block between the Suburban and the ice cream truck in a matter of two seconds. None of the three men standing on top of it had time to do a thing except scream as the Stinger impacted the ice cream truck and turned it into a gigantic fireball.

"Keep going to the end of the street, and then turn around and come back," Casey instructed Devin, as he opened his door and rolled out onto the lawn across from the Bartowskis house. Rolling up to his feet, he drew his twin .357s and put two bullets into the fourth member of the NSA strike team simultaneously – one in his heart, one in his head.

"And that is all she wrote," Casey said with a smile. Looking across the burning wreckage of the ice cream truck, he watched the Bartowskis' garage door scroll up as he strolled across the street.

* * *

Sarah had been just about ready to hit the garage door opener and go when there was an enormous explosion in the street. That was followed by screeching tires, and then two gunshots.

Then all went quiet. Very, very quiet. All Sarah heard was the sound of something burning somewhere.

She opened the door of the Porsche and got out. Chuck looked over at her curiously, and then got out of the Dodge.

"What the hell just happened?"

"I have no idea," Sarah said. She drew her Colt 1911 from behind her back, and then hit the garage door opener.

As the garage door slowly scrolled upwards, she could see something burning in the street, and then she saw somebody crossing the lawn.

"Well, good afternoon!" shouted John Casey cheerfully, tucking his guns back into their holsters. "I gotta say, I'm really disappointed in the utter inability of my NSA colleagues to do anything right!"

As he entered the garage, his Suburban came down the street and pulled into the driveway, Devin at the wheel. "Needless to say," Casey continued, "we all need to get the fuck out of here, right now. Only problem is, I'm pretty positive that your two cars and the Suburban all have trackers on them."

And just as he said that, Morgan came rolling up in the Mystery Machine. His eyes went wide as he climbed out, taking in the carnage in the street and the huge hole in the front of the house.

Casey looked out in the street, smiled, and looked back at Sarah. "I never thought I'd say this, but I am elated to see him."

* * *

**__****__****Author's note:**_ I think it goes without saying that Wednesday will have more than two parts. More to come soon!_


	9. Wednesday, Part 3

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 7_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Morgan Grimes - Joshua Gomez  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Devon Woodcomb - Ryan McPartlin  
Ellie Bartowski Woodcomb - Sarah Lancaster  
General Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Captain Mark Charles, LAPD - Michael Cudlitz  
Robert Martirosyan - Ken Davitian  
Firestone Boulevard Slayer - Richard Cabral

**February 15****th****, 2012**

"What the hell happened here?" Morgan asked.

"Uh, some folks who wanted to see Chuck and Sarah, shall we say, life-challenged, found themselves on the receiving end of a good, old-fashioned Wisconsin-style ass-whuppin'," Casey replied.

Everybody's eyes turned toward him. "What? I'm from Wisconsin," he said. "So?"

"If this is the kind of ass-whooping you handed out in high school, I'm glad I didn't know you then," Chuck replied.

"All-state linebacker, three years running," Casey replied. "Ohio State was interested, till I blew out – wait a second, what the hell, Bartowski? We need to get out of here, not talk about my high school days!"

He looked around. "Everybody's cell phones. On the ground."

Chuck and Sarah both stared at him. "No!" Chuck replied. "We both have iPhones!"

"Well, you go right ahead and keep it, then, Bartowski. The NSA will use your iPhone to iTrack you, and then iMake you iDead. But I'm not gonna tell you have to get rid of it."

Chuck gritted his teeth, and then pulled his iPhone off his belt, tossing it on the ground. Sarah's followed, and they were joined by Devin's Blackberry, Ellie's Chocolate, and Morgan's Sidekick.

"Go ahead, Casey, shoot 'em," Chuck said. "Put us out of our misery."

Casey looked at him like he was crazy. "I'm not gonna shoot the damn things," he replied. "I'm gonna let the NSA track them all to this spot right here!"

He dialed a number on his phone. "Robert," he said a moment later, "I'm gonna need six clean phones. Nothing on them, no credit history, not a thing."

He paused for a moment, and then practically exploded. "Fifteen hundred dollars? You work in Bellflower, Robert, not Beverly Hills!" He paused again. "No. A thousand, or I tell ICE to ship your ass back to Armenia." Another pause. "Alright. I can do twelve hundred. Meet me at the usual place, one hour."

Casey put his phone back in his pocket. "Hey!" Morgan shouted. "How come you're not getting rid of your phone?"

"Oh, I will," Casey replied, "but I'm expecting one more call before I get rid of it."

He turned to Chuck and Sarah. "Chuck, you and Devin get Lisa and John and their carseats loaded into the backseat of the Machine. Ellie, get Katie back there as well. Sarah, I need you to

go inside, get the diaper bags for your munchkins, and show me where your armory is. Go, people, now!"

Morgan's Mystery Machine was, luckily, a 1999 GMC Savana conversion van. Originally a fifteen passenger, he had left a three passenger bench seat in the back and put two rows of captain's chairs in front of that, facing a card table. It could seat nine, which between the adults and the babies, was exactly how many people it needed to fit right now.

"Thank God you have this thing, Morgan," Chuck said, as Casey and Sarah came out of the house. They were an incongruous picture – Casey with an armload of heavy weaponry, Sarah with ammo belts and two diaper bags draped from her shoulders.

Chuck couldn't help it. He started to laugh, and reached for his iPhone to take a picture – "Goddammit," he muttered, as he realized it wasn't on his belt. He looked longingly at it, lying ten feet away on the lawn, but resisted the urge.

Casey and Sarah finished loading the armament into the back end of the Mystery Machine and slammed the doors shut. "Let's go, people!" Casey called out. He climbed up into the driver's seat, much to the dismay of Morgan, who ran around to ride shotgun – only to find Sarah climbing into that seat.

Grumbling about how a man should be allowed to at least ride in the front seat of his own van, he climbed up into the passenger cabin and slumped at the table with Chuck, Devin, and Ellie. As soon as Morgan was seated, Casey put the van into drive and rocketed away from the curb. As he turned left onto Valleyheart Drive, his phone rang.

"Casey, secure," he said, answering it.

"Colonel Casey, this is General Beckman," he heard. "Have Bartowski and Walker been taken care of?"

"Ah, that would be a negative, General," he replied. "However, I was successful at neutralizing the strike team you sent as my backup."

Beckman was quiet for a moment. "Excuse me, Colonel Casey? I'm quite certain I issued you an order."

"Yes, well, General Beckman, that's all well and good, except I don't take orders from TRAITORS!"

He barked the word so loudly into his phone that Sarah jumped, and the three babies all started crying. "You hear that, General Beckman?" Casey yelled at the phone. "That's the sound of kids who would've been orphans if I'd followed your orders! Two of them are my godchildren, for Christ's sake, and your precious fucking Fulcrum wanted to eliminate their parents!"

"John," Beckman said, her voice low, "there are things at work here that you don't understand."

"Don't you dare 'John' me," Casey replied, his voice sounding very dangerous. "The only thing I don't understand is how a highly decorated Air Force intelligence officer could commit treason on such a grand scale."

"John, Fulcrum is not the enemy."

"Whatever makes you sleep at night, General. Now, can you do me a favor?"

"What's that, John?"

"Find someplace quiet, where you'll have privacy and won't be disturbed, and go fuck yourself."

And with that, he pressed the "End" button on his phone. "Roll down your window, Walker," he said.

Confused, Sarah rolled the window down. With a perfect sidearm pitch, Casey hurled the phone out the window, where it bounced off the fence on the side of the road and clattered down into the Los Angeles River.

Casey hung a hard right onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard, and then rocketed down Ventura Place, screeching to a stop when it ended at Ventura Boulevard. "Shit," he laughed. "I could really use a phone right now."

"Uh, I've got like an old Virgin Mobile prepaid one in the glovebox," Morgan said. "I don't know if it even has minutes anymore."

Casey's eyes widened. "Doesn't matter. As long as it turns on, I can still use it to make an emergency call."

The light turned green, and Casey took a left out onto Ventura Boulevard, heading for the 101.

Sarah opened up the glovebox and dug out the phone, handing it to Casey. Casey hit the power button, and the old phone powered up. "Only one bar of battery, but that should suffice," Casey muttered, dialing 9-1-1.

"Nine-one-one emergency response, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"This is Lieutenant Colonel John Casey, National Security Agency, authorization code one-four-seven-delta-four-two-eight. I need to speak with Captain Mark Charles, LAPD, immediately."

"Hold, please."

There was one ring, then a second, and then the phone was answered. "Captain Charles."

"Mark, it's John Casey."

"John, what the hell is going on? Why did 911 just transfer your call to me?"

"I can't explain right now, Mark. Just suffice it to say, it's a matter of national security."

He could hear the LAPD captain sigh on the other end. "Alright, Casey, what do you need?"

"I need you to inform all units, all agencies that a 1999 GMC Savana conversion van, black in color, California license plate five Papa Alpha Uniform zero three four, is being operated by the federal government, that this is a matter of national security and units should under no circumstances approach the van."

Charles sighed again. "You're driving that van, aren't you, John?"

"The fun never stops!"

"Alright. You got it. Just, for God's sake, don't tear my city up too bad."

"I'll do my best, Mark. Thanks."

Casey disconnected, rolled down the window, and tossed the phone out the window as he turned onto the southbound 101. "Didn't you just bust that out because you really needed a phone?" Morgan asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, but if LAPD decides to trace the call, then the NSA can track the phone," Casey replied. "If they do that, they'll just find it lying in the bushes by the Campo de Cahuenga, and then won't they look stupid."

"You're having fun with all of this, aren't you, Casey?" Chuck asked.

"You have no idea, Bartowski."

* * *

Fifty minutes later, Casey took a right turn off of Firestone Boulevard into the Stonewood Shopping Center. Heading down the entrance road toward Macy's, he took a left, and flew across the parking lot, bringing the van to a quick halt in front of the Macy's Home Store.

An Armenian man stood outside the store, waiting for him. Casey jumped out of the van and walked over to him. He spoke to him for a moment, and then the man handed him a bag. Casey pulled out his wallet, withdrew twelve one-hundred dollar bills, and handed them to him. The man shook Casey's hand, and then walked inside the mall.

Casey jumped back in the van, and handed the bag to Sarah. "Six cell phones. They're all clean, untraceable. Subscriptions are paid up through the end of March."

He turned around and looked at Chuck and Morgan. "No special features. Just phones. Don't bitch, or I'll take them back."

Sarah reached in the bag, pulling out six identical LG 200C phones. They had stickers on them, telling what the phone number was. "They're all 562 area code phones," Sarah warned. "You're going to need to remember that, because I know we're all used to either 818 or 323."

Casey pulled back out of the mall and turned left onto Firestone Boulevard, heading southeast , back in the direction of the 605 freeway – where they had just come from – and beyond, to the 5 freeway. When he stopped at the light at Pioneer Boulevard, though, there was trouble.

A group of men wearing white t-shirts and black Dickies stood on the corner. All had green bandanas hanging from their right rear pockets. Two of them pointed at the van, and then started to walk toward it.

"Oh, fuck," Casey muttered, as a low riding truck pulled up behind the Machine, and another stopped on Pioneer – directly in front of the van. The two approaching the van walked up to the window, and knocked on it.

"Hey, baby, you're a little ways from home, eh?" one of them said to Sarah, more than loud enough to be heard from the window.

"Maybe you'd like to back away from this van," Sarah said, just loud enough for them to hear.

"Maybe I would," he replied, nodding. "And maybe you'd like to take a good suck on my dick. Ooh, look at those lips – I bet you suck a GOOD dick, baby."

In the back, Chuck had a white knuckle grip on the edge of the table. A vein was starting to stand out on his forehead, and when the gang member made that last remark, he started to stand up.

Casey turned his head slightly. "Bartowski, sit DOWN!" he hissed.

Chuck sat. Directly in front of him, Sarah's left hand was creeping down toward the space between the two front seats – to where Casey's Saiga-12 shotgun sat.

"Come on, baby," the guy outside the window was still calling in a mocking tone. "I bet you could take us two, maybe even three at a time? You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

And with that, Sarah Walker Bartowski, once the best deep-cover operative in the Central Intelligence Agency, had had enough. She flung the shotgun door of the van open, smashing the punk in the face. He went down, and she landed on her feet outside the van. The Saiga-12 came up, aimed at the windshield of a low-riding Impala parked on the corner.

The shotgun roared, and the windshield of the Impala ceased to be. "Here we go," Casey muttered. He reached between the seats and came up with a fully automatic AK-47. He jumped out of the van too.

Twenty men in similar dress had gathered in a circle around the van, and all had guns out – mostly crappy Friday night specials. Despite the fact that they outgunned Sarah and Casey ten to one, they seemed to be hesitating based on the two agents' superior weaponry.

"ALRIGHT!" Casey shouted. "Listen up! I'm havin' a bad day already, and quite frankly, killing Firestone Boulevard Slayers wasn't on my list of things to do today, but I'm willing to add it!"

"We're federal agents!" Sarah yelled from the other side of the van. "If you don't move that truck out from in front of this van right now and stand down, I'm gonna add killing Firestone Boulevard Slayers to my list of things to do as well!"

Nobody moved. They just continued to stare at the two agents. "Fine," Sarah said, aiming her shotgun at the Impala and firing again. The grill disintegrated, and the hood blew open.

"I'm gonna ask again ONE MORE TIME!" she shouted, clearly mad as hell. "Either that truck moves, or I start firing this thing at people instead of cars!"

The man whose face she had smashed with her door finally picked himself up off of the pavement. He glared at Sarah, rage in his eyes. But he didn't say anything. He just looked at the driver of the pickup, and made a whirling motion with his finger.

The truck pulled away, and Casey and Sarah jumped back in the van. Casey put it in gear and sped off before Sarah even had her door shut.

It wasn't until they were on the 5 freeway, headed south, that anybody spoke.

"Uh… where are we going?" asked Ellie.

"San Diego," Casey replied. "I've got a safe house down there."

Devin frowned. "I seem to remember your safe house being in Compton."

"I've got a couple," Casey said. "I figured you'd prefer the one in La Jolla, since you might be there a few days. Also, Morgan?"

Morgan looked up. "Yeah?"

"Hate to break this to you, but you're gonna have to get this van repainted. Probably want to get new plates, too. It's a target for a vicious street gang now."

"Aw, man!" Morgan complained.

"Don't worry about it, I'll pay for it," Chuck assured him.

"That's not the point, Chuck, I like the Mystery Machine!"

"Fine," Casey grumbled. "Leave it. Get dead. What do I care?"

Sarah turned around. "Morgan, he's right. It's for your own good."

Morgan leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms, and began to pout. "Whatever."

Chuck looked at Sarah. "Hey, babe, can I tell you something?"

"What's that?"

"You are incredibly hot when you've got a shotgun in your hands and you're threatening gang members with it."

Sarah smiled, and then looked offended. "So I'm not incredibly hot all the time?"

"No, you are," Chuck assured her, "but even more so just now."

The smile returned to her face. Chuck leaned toward her, and kissed her quickly.

Casey groaned. "God save me from married couples."

Ellie said something under her breath that nobody quite caught but which sounded remarkably like "pot and kettle" to Chuck. "What?" he asked his sister.

"I said, talk about the pot and the kettle," she replied.

Every set of eyes in the van was suddenly on Ellie – except for Casey's. He was suddenly finding the tail end of the car in front of him quite interesting.

"After poker night," Ellie said, a mischievous smile on her face, "Maya McCarthy didn't leave Johnny Boy's apartment right away. In fact, she didn't leave until almost noon on Valentine's Day!"

Sarah's eyebrows went up, and an astonished smile pasted itself on her face. "And exactly what was THAT all about, Casey?" she asked.

"We were talking," he grumbled.

"Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Chuck cracked. Morgan chuckled, and held out a palm under the table for a low five. Chuck brought his hand down on it.

Casey sat in the front seat and stewed. "We're on the run from the NSA, and we just escaped a confrontation with the Firestone Boulevard Slayers… and all you can think about is my love life?"

"Oh, come on, Casey!" Chuck protested. "Yours is so lacking that it's novel for anything to actually happen!"

Casey gripped the steering wheel with one hand, and pressed the other to his forehead, his thumb and ring finger massaging his temples. "With friends like you people, who NEEDS the NSA?"

* * *

_**Author's note:** the license plate of the Mystery Machine is not one of those made-up studio plates, like you see all the time in movies. It's actually a real California license plate! However, fear not, it is not the license plate of some unsuspecting Californian driving around Los Angeles right now. I know this, because it's nailed to the wall of my garage, in Phoenix!_


	10. Thursday, Part 1

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 8_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Sen. Langston Graham - Tony Todd  
Gunnery Sgt. Mitchell Tucker - Terry Crews  
General Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Laszlo Mahnovski - Jonathan Sadowski

**12:03 AM Pacific Standard Time**

**February 16****th****, 2012**

**La Jolla, California**

"I think I can do it," Chuck said, looking at the disassembled telephone in front of him.

It was an old touch tone phone, probably from the 1980s, but its bulkiness would definitely work for their purposes. "I just need… a lot of electronic stuff," Chuck continued. "Stuff that I don't have."

Casey looked at him. "How much of it could we get from a Buy More?"

"All of it," Chuck replied, "but how are we gonna do that, Casey? You spent all your cash on those phones. Between the rest of us, we have maybe two hundred bucks, which we need for food. We can't use a credit card, can't use a debit card, can't go to an ATM. The NSA will be all over us."

Casey smiled and shook his head. "I have wanted to say this to you for so long… you're not thinking outside the box, Bartowski."

Chuck frowned. "What exactly do you mean?"

Casey's smile got bigger. "Lemme show you."

He picked up his newly acquired, clean cell phone, and dialed. He held the phone to his hear. "Hi… Maya? Hey, it's John. Hey, I didn't wake you up, did I?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Good… hey, listen, I'm sorry I didn't call you yesterday… I just got caught up with some work stuff…"

"Never has a classic blowoff line been more true," Sarah remarked from across the room. She looked exhausted, and with good reason. She'd spent the last two hours trying to get John and Lisa to fall asleep in an unfamiliar bed, and that after the craziness of the day.

"I need you to do me a favor," Casey continued. "It's gonna sound crazy, but I promise you I'll explain later."

He waited a moment, then, "Okay. I need you to go to the Buy More website. I have a list of things that I need to buy for 'at store pickup'."

Casey waved frantically at Chuck, who handed him the list. "Okay, are you ready? Alright. I need a Sony Vaio UX computer…"

He read off the list of about four thousand dollars worth of items. "Now, here's the kicker," Casey finished. "And I swear to God I'm good to pay you back on this. I need you to put it on your credit card."

Casey listened a moment. "No, you can trust me… really…"

He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and made a face at Sarah and Chuck. Then he jerked his head, with a "get the hell out" motion.

They looked at each other, smiled, and looked back at Casey. Chuck shook his head.

"Maya, listen. I… think you're great. I really like you, and… uh… I'd like to explore this going somewhere. That's how you can be sure I'm gonna be good for this debt, because I don't want to blow this."

He had turned bright red. Chuck, feeling a little silly from exhaustion, had gone over next to Sarah, got down on his knees, and was mime-begging her, mouthing Casey's words as he did so. She was literally biting her hand to keep from laughing.

"Okay," Casey said, keeping his voice calm, while looking like he was about to explode. "I need you to put that for pickup at 5151 Mission Center Road, in San Diego. Put it for pickup in the name of Charles Carmichael."

Chuck's head jerked up and he looked over at Casey. He furrowed his brow, shrugged his shoulders, and spread his hands.

Casey mouthed "TRUST ME" and pointed at his desk. Chuck stood up, crossed to the desk, and opened the top drawer. Sure enough, there was a gallon Ziploc bag in there with a passport and a California driver's license in the name of Charles Carmichael. There was also one for an Elisabeth Carmichael – _that was a smart piece of work_, Chuck though – and one for Casey Johnson.

"Okay, Maya," Casey said. "Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow. I miss you too. Bye."

He pressed the "End" button on his phone, and looked at Chuck and Sarah. "I will end you both," he growled.

"Oh, get over it, Casey. Go to bed. Get some sleep. I need to start writing code, anyway. For this to work, I'm gonna have to have some crazy custom code."

Casey and Sarah left the den as Chuck opened up Morgan's laptop and opened up a new Notepad document. "Alright," Chuck muttered, as Sarah headed toward the bedroom where the kids were, and Casey got comfortable on the couch. "Let's write some software."

* * *

**8:42 AM**

Chuck's head jerked up from the table as Sarah touched his shoulder. "Good morning, sunshine," she said softly.

"Morning," he slurred, looking at the computer screen.

_Program successfully compiled_, the screen said. _8:29 AM_.

Chuck thrust his fists in the air. "It finally worked!" he shouted. "YEAAAHH!"

And with that scream, everybody in the house was awake. Casey stumbled into the den. "What the hell is going on?" he asked. "Do I smell coffee?"

"I started a pot," Sarah said. "I figured everybody could use some."

"Yeah, that would be me," Chuck said. "I told the program to compile at 8:15 AM, so I've only had twenty-seven minutes of sleep."

Sarah turned to him, a worried look on her face. "You were up all night coding?"

"Every time I tried to compile, it had an error of some sort," Chuck replied. "But it'll work now!"

"Buy More will be open in fifteen minutes," Casey grumbled. "Grab a cup of coffee, let me brush my teeth, and we'll head on over there."

"I'm going with you," Sarah said.

"No you're not!" both men said, turning to face her.

"Excuse me?"

"You need to stay here and take care of Devin and Ellie and Morgan and the kids," Casey told her. "We can't have both of the trained agents running off to Buy More and leaving the civilians alone."

Sarah blew out her breath in frustration. Casey was right, but she really didn't want to let Chuck out of her sight. However, it didn't look like she had much of a choice.

"Fine," she said. "But be safe, okay?"

"We'll be fine, Walker," Casey insisted. Then he headed to the bathroom.

It took him a moment, but shortly thereafter, he and Chuck were walking out the front door of the house. Sarah stopped them just before they walked out.

"Chuck, take this," she instructed, putting her Colt 1911 in Chuck's hand.

"Sarah," Chuck replied, "I can barely shoot a gun. What good do you think this will do me?"

"Please, Chuck," she pleaded. "It'll make me feel better."

Casey, strangely enough, agreed with her. "Take it, Bartowski, you never know when you might need it. Besides that, if I'm not mistaken, that's Walker's favorite piece."

Chuck looked at it. As far as he was concerned, a gun was a gun. But Sarah nodded. "He's right," she said. "I got it from one of my trainers when I was certified as a deep-cover operative. It's the first one I ever had as a CIA agent."

As much as Chuck disliked guns, knowing how much the weapon meant to Sarah really touched him – the fact that she trusted him with it – it was as if she was sending a little piece of herself along with him to keep him safe. "Thank you," he said. "I just hope I don't have to use it."

Sarah smiled, but she didn't look happy. Chuck wordlessly stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug. When they broke, he leaned down and gently kissed her – a total reversal of the "kiss of death" the previous afternoon in the garage.

"We'll be back in a little while," Chuck promised, tucking the gun into the waistband in the back of his jeans.

* * *

**1:13 PM, Eastern Standard Time**

**Rayburn Senate Office Building, Washington, DC**

Senator Langston Graham was not a happy man. The Select Committee for Intelligence was going in the toilet. Lou DeBlasio was running roughshod over them, and nobody was putting up a fight. He felt as if he and Sam Tyler were the only people left in the government who understood what the hell was going on.

His cell phone chirped. He had just received a text message. Graham picked up the phone and read the message.

"John 14:27a NRSV" was all the message said.

"What the hell is that?"

* * *

**10:27 AM, Pacific Standard Time**

**La Jolla**

"Alright," Chuck said, clicking on the "OK" button on the computer screen. "The encryption's in place. Give it a shot."

* * *

**1:28 PM Eastern Standard Time**

The STU-8 on Graham's desk rang. He frowned, looking at the secure telephone. What was that all about? Nobody ever called him on the secure phone at his office. Nonetheless, he picked it up.

An odd warbling tone greeted him – the tone of an encrypted phone call that the key hadn't been entered for. "What the hell," he said.

Then a thought hit him. He looked at his phone again. Then turning to the bookshelf behind his desk, he searched for…

"There you are," he muttered, pulling the New Revised Standard Version of the Holy Bible off the shelf. Blowing a thick layer of dust off of it, he turned to the Gospel of John, the fourteenth chapter. "Verse twenty-seven A," he said quietly.

There it was. He pulled the small keyboard attached to the STU-8 to him, and typed in, "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you," and hit enter.

Immediately, the warbling sound stopped. "This is Graham, secure."

* * *

**10:29 AM Pacific Standard Time**

Sarah's fist shot up in the air. "Walker, secure," she replied, barely able to keep the jubilation out of her voice.

"Sarah, what warrants a call on the STU with a one-time pad?" Graham asked in confusion.

"Well, we've got some serious problems, sir," she replied. "Fulcrum has compromised a number of high-ranking officials. They plan to launch a coup d'état next Monday."

Sarah heard a thud in the background. She assumed it was Graham's chair falling over as he stood up quickly – she'd seen it happen a number of times.

"Holy shit," he said. "Who?"

"General Powers, General Kellerman, Admiral McConnell, Secretary Foster, Secretary O'Hare, Justice Noble, Senator DeBlasio, and General Beckman."

In Washington, Langston Graham went very still. If he could've gone pale, he would have. "Did you just say General Beckman?"

"Yes, sir," Sarah replied. "Yesterday afternoon, she ordered a hit on me and the Intersect. Fortunately, Colonel Casey was able to intercept and neutralize the threat. We are currently in an undisclosed location."

"Where did you get an STU?" he asked, still amazed at what he'd just heard.

"My husband," Sarah said, and Graham was quite certain he detected a note of pride in her voice. "He figured out how to build one using a thirty year old touch tone phone and parts that he picked up at Buy More."

Graham sighed. "I knew we should've recruited him ten years ago. But never mind. So why are you calling me?"

"You're the only person we can trust," Sarah replied. "We can't call Director Tyler – there's too many Fulcrum around him. We need your help, and we need the help of the one member of the JCS who isn't compromised – General Stanfield."

Graham shook his head. "Exactly what do you need us to do?"

"Okay," Sarah said. "I need flight clearance for an unarmed military aircraft into Brasilia, Brazil; Belfast, Northern Ireland; Kiev, Ukraine; and Belgrade, Serbia. I also need mid-air refueling between those locations frequent enough so as to allow a ferry-configured F/A-18 to get from San Diego to Brasilia to Belfast to Kiev to Belgrade."

Graham's eyes had gone wide. "You need – what the hell, Walker?"

"I'm gonna call in international support from some very powerful people who owe me favors, sir," Sarah replied. "I figure that between you and General Stanfield, you should know enough people in high places to make it happen."

Graham nodded weakly. "Okay," he said.

* * *

**11:35 AM, Mountain Standard Time**

**Grand County Airport, Moab, Utah**

Gunnery Sergeant Mitch Tucker (USMC Reserve) was sitting at his desk. Six years as the manager of this hole. He wasn't quite sure why he still did it, except that one couldn't beat living fifteen minutes from Arches National Park.

His cell phone rang. Unexpectedly. He looked down at it like it was a snake. The thing never rang.

He looked at the display. The area code said 562. He recognized that as being the southern part of the metro Los Angeles area.

"Hello?"

"Gunnery Sergeant Tucker, this is Lieutenant Colonel John Casey, United States Air Force. You remember me?"

Tucker snapped upwards in his chair. "Of course I do, sir!" he replied. "Except you were a major when we last spoke."

"Got promoted about a year and a half ago," was the response. "Now listen up, Marine. What I'm about to tell you is, no joke, classified Top Secret. If you share it with anybody cleared below that, you will go to jail. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Tucker barked into the phone.

"Good. There is a terrorist faction with well placed people in the United States government. That includes my commanding General, Mel Powers, and yours, Bob Kellerman. They intend to overthrow the President next Monday."

"Next Monday," Tucker said quietly. "Wait a second, next Monday's this ECOMCON exercise that I'm supposed to go to Yuma for!"

"ECOMCON is the overthrow plan," Casey replied solemnly.

"Jesus Christ!" Tucker exploded. "They're going to use us against our commander in chief?"

Casey took a moment to let that sink in. "JESUS CHRIST!" Tucker shouted again. "Okay, I'll do anything. What can I do to help?"

"Who do you know at MCAS Miramar?"

* * *

**1:38 PM, Eastern Standard Time**

**Fort Meade, Maryland**

"What do you have?" Beckman asked the young man standing in front of her.

"Senator Graham's secure telephone received an incoming call about ten minutes ago, ma'am," the young man replied. "It was encrypted with a key we do not have, and therefore, we were unable to listen in."

"Dammit," she muttered, closing her eyes.

"However," the young man continued, "we were able to trace the location of the call to a house in La Jolla, California, just off of Torrey Pines Boulevard."

Beckman's eyes flew open again. "Excellent," she said. "Deploy a strike team to that location immediately."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Is there anything else?"

"No, that'll be all, Lazslo. You're dismissed."


	11. Interlude, Belgrade

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Interlude 2_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer  
Lt. Comm. Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana

_**Author's note: **based on the time zones of California and Serbia, this interlude takes place approximately four minutes after the conclusion of _**Thursday, Part One**_._

* * *

**7:42 PM, Belgrade Time**

**February 16****th****, 2012**

**Belgrade International Airport, Belgrade, Serbia**

The C-2A Greyhound was tucked away in a very remote corner of the airport, parked in between several aircraft that were in varying states of disrepair.

After departing from the _Eisenhower_, it had flown to Diego Garcia. From there, it had made multiple short hops, across India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and Turkey, before finally making its way into Serbia. They tried to land only in remote locations, where Bryce could impress them by waving about large amounts of cash and / or his CIA-issued American Express Black card.

Unfortunately, the old Grumman aircraft wasn't designed for the type of punishment that had been placed upon it, and so at just after 2:00 PM, when the starboard engine overheated and shut down, Commander Harrison – "Really, call me Rachel," she'd insisted to Bryce – had made an emergency landing at Belgrade International Airport. The appearance of three one hundred dollar bills had been more than enough to keep the airport manager happy, and convince him to hide the Greyhound.

Now, the CIA officer and the US Navy officer on the run from Fulcrum were resting in the back end of the Greyhound. They'd found enough packing cloths to make a surface almost comfortable to lie on, and given their exhaustion, certainly comfortable enough to sleep on. When it was dark, one of them would venture out for food and water.

Just before 8:00 PM, Bryce woke up – he felt somebody watching him. In the dim light filtering into the cabin of the aircraft, he could see that Rachel was looking at him – the light reflected off of her green eyes.

"Hey," he said, "are you alright?"

She sighed. "I met you thirty-six hours ago," she said, "and yet, I've already literally been halfway around the world with you. We're running from some sort of super-secret terrorist organization… I feel like I'm in a Bond movie."

"Well, I AM a super spy," Bryce joked.

"Oh, a SUPER spy is it now?" Rachel teased.

"Lahkin, Bryce Lahkin. Agent Double-Oh Zero," he responded with a horrible British accent, purposefully flipping his hair into his face.

"You are terrible," Rachel said with a groan, as she reached out a hand to brush the hair off of his forehead.

Her hand landed on his cheek – and she didn't remove it, nor did he make any effort to make her. She just rested her hand there for a moment.

"I'll tell you what else is funny," she said quietly. "I've only known you for thirty-six hours… but I really like you, Mr. Bryce the Spy."

He smiled. "I like you too, Ms. Rachel the Pilot."

She smiled too – and then scooted over toward him, brought her hand down under his chin, lifted his face a little, and kissed him.


	12. Thursday, Part 2

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 9_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Devon Woodcomb - Ryan McPartlin  
Ellie Bartowski Woodcomb - Sarah Lancaster  
Morgan Grimes - Joshua Gomez  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin

**11:10 AM, February 16****th****, 2012**

**The corner of La Jolla Shores Dr. & La Jolla Farms Rd.**

**Just off of Torrey Pines Rd., La Jolla, California**

Team Chuck & Family had spent about half an hour figuring out the plan of attack.

"We've got probably an hour before the NSA figures out that the call to Senator Graham's secure phone came from here and lands a strike team in the front yard," Casey informed them, as he cracked open a taped cardboard box. It was filled with what looked for all the world like crappy old cell phones.

"Place these throughout the house," he instructed everybody, tossing them around the room. "Once you've put them somewhere, turn them on."

He didn't tell anybody what they were, but Chuck and Sarah recognized them immediately – NSA Incinerators. They both looked at him – "Nobody's taking my safe house," he growled.

At 11:15 AM, the Mystery Machine was packed, and Team Chuck headed out. Their first stop was the Buy More down in Mission Valley.

"Alright, so you all understand the plan, right?" Casey asked Devin, Ellie, and Morgan.

"We got it," Devin replied. "We're headed to Ensenada. You've got a safe house there, and the GPS on Morgan's laptop will give us exact directions."

"Sounds about right," Casey replied.

Chuck got out of the van, and put his hands on the sill of the shotgun window, looking in at his sister. "Ellie, take good care of my kids. Please."

"I will, Chuck," she said, smiling sadly. "Just make sure you come back for them, okay?"

Chuck felt rather than saw Sarah join him, looking in at Ellie. "We will," Sarah said quietly. "We'll definitely be back."

Chuck looked back in the door of the van. He climbed back in quickly. "Bye bye, kids," he said, kissing John and Lisa both.

"Dada bye bye!" John said, a smile on his face, waving at Chuck, but Lisa had a different reaction.

"No, Dada, Ful-cum!" she wailed, a terrified look on her face. The tone in her voice, the knowledge that in her fifteen month old brain, she knew exactly what was going on, broke Chuck's heart. He knelt on the floor of the van, unbuckled her carseat, and embraced his daughter.

"Ful-cum," she sniffled. "No Dada bye bye."

"I'll be okay, Lisa. I'll be back." She didn't look happy, but she stopped crying as he buckled her back into the carseat, and backed out of the van.

"Bye bye Unc Uck!" Katie said, as he slid the door shut. Chuck returned to his sister's window.

"Take care of yourself, Chuck," she said softly, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Those kids need you."

Devin leaned across, reaching his hand out to Chuck. Chuck grabbed it, and Devin shook it firmly. "Good luck, Chuck," he said, seriously. "Make it awesome."

Morgan popped up between the seats. "Stay safe, buddy," he said. "I've got to have somebody to come back and yell at me when I let your kids watch inappropriate British TV."

Chuck laughed, but it sounded hollow. He tried to say something, but found that his voice just wouldn't work. He nodded, and waved at them, backing away from the van. Devin put the Mystery Machine into gear, and pulled away.

Sarah leaned into him. He embraced her – and without warning, she started to cry. Great heaving sobs racked her body for a minute or so, but she calmed quickly. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at Chuck.

"They'll be fine," she said, a fresh note of confidence in her voice. "And so will we."

Chuck felt Casey's hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Bartowski," the NSA agent said. "We've got a Herder to steal."

Quickly crossing the parking lot, they headed for the row of red and white Toyota Yarises parked in front of the Buy More. Chuck hadn't been inside of one of them in a couple of years.

"Are we really stealing it, though?" he asked. "After all, Casey, you ARE the GM of a Buy More… technically, you're just using a company car."

Sarah looked at him, amusement on her face. "Pretty sure we're taking it, without permission, for somewhat nefarious purposes," she said, working a lock pick on the passenger door. "Sounds like stealing it to me."

The shotgun door popped open, and she hit the unlock button. Pushing the seat forward, she climbed in the back seat, letting Casey get in the shotgun seat and Chuck in the driver's seat.

"Why am I driving again?" Chuck asked.

"Because we're letting Walker out in twenty minutes and because I hate driving these things," Casey informed him, sitting a series of buttons on the CD player. The passenger side dash unfolded, revealing the controls that had been built into the Herders by Lazslo the boy wonder.

The first thing Casey did was forcibly remove the GPS unit, open the door, and drop it in the parking lot. "As far as the NSA's concerned, this Herder isn't going anywhere," Casey said. Then he hit a button, and the Herder started. Casey hit another button, and the controls folded back into the dash.

"Drive on, Charles," Casey said, as if Chuck was his chauffeur.

Chuck pulled the Herder out of the Buy More parking lot onto Mission Valley Road. Taking a left, he headed up to the 805 freeway. He jumped onto the 805 northbound for seven miles, exiting at Miramar Road and heading east.

He took Miramar for four miles, turning right into the main gate. A pair of Marines holding M-16s blocked the Herder's path.

Chuck rolled down the driver's window, and Sarah leaned forward from the back seat. "National Command Authority," she said, holding up an ID card that Chuck had never seen before.

The Marines had clearly seen it in some form before, though, as they backed away from the car, waving them through. "That's a new one for me," Chuck said, as he negotiated the veritable obstacle course of K-rails that the Marines had erected to keep crazies from simply driving into the base.

The card was black, with an off-center red stripe. It had a picture of Sarah that looked to be several years old, and no name – just a code number. "It's a National Command Authority ID card," she said. "Issued by the White House. I received it when I became a deep-cover operative, and it was never revoked."

"That's a handy little tool," Chuck replied. "You have one of those, Casey?"

"No," the NSA agent said, more than a little jealousy flavoring his voice.

Chuck drove through Miramar until he reached the AAFES base exchange. Parking in front of the pseudo-mall, he and the two others exited the Herder and headed in. A GSA employee sat at a podium right inside the door.

"IDs, please," she said, a bored look on her face.

Casey flashed his Air Force ID, Sarah her NCA ID. "He's with us," she said.

"Sign in, please," the woman said. "And I need to see ID."

Chuck pulled out his fake Charles Carmichael ID and handed it to her, signing in with that name. "Thank you," she said, in the same monotone she'd been speaking with the entire time.

"What an incredibly boring woman," Casey muttered, once they were out of her earshot. The three headed into the strangely deserted food court area. A man in a flight suit lounged in front of the Starbucks.

He jumped up when he saw them approaching. "You Walker?" he asked, walking toward Sarah.

"That's me," she replied.

He laughed. "I figured. Mitch Tucker told me to look out for a bombshell blonde. Captain Will Williamson."

"That's a hell of a name," Sarah replied. "And 'bombshell blonde'? I may have to have a little chat with Gunny Tucker."

"Yeah, what can I say," Williamson said with a laugh. "My parents had a sick sense of humor, and Tucker's a bit of a loony."

Chuck looked confused. "Tucker… that's the guy who helped us blow the drug warehouse to kingdom come, right?"

"That's the one," Sarah confirmed.

"So," she said, turning back to Williamson, "are we all set?"

"We are indeed," he replied. "You've got some very powerful friends, Ms. Walker."

"It's Mrs. Bartowski, actually, "she replied. "But you can call me Sarah."

"My apologies, ma'am," Williamson said. "And which one of these two is the lucky Mr. Bartowski?"

"That would be me," Chuck said, jokingly adding, "and if you touch my wife, I'll watch while she kills you."

Williamson laughed. "No worries there, Mr. Bartowski. I'm… well… would you understand if I told you I'm a friend of Jack Harkness?"

Chuck's eyebrows raised. "Really."

"What can I say," Williamson replied. "I love being a Marine and flying's incredible… I'm willing to deal with 'don't ask, don't tell'."

Casey, who had been sporting a look of confusion on his face throughout the exchange, suddenly stiffened. "Oh, get over it, Casey," Chuck said, rolling his eyes.

"I have to apologize for the Neanderthal here," Chuck said, turning back to Williamson. "He's a pretty hardcore Republican and a big fan of the Second Amendment."

Williamson shrugged. "So am I. Doesn't change a thing."

He turned back to Sarah. "Well, Mrs. Bartowski – Sarah – I'm ready to go whenever you are. We've got an F-18F Super Hornet two-seater, ferry configuration. It can go 2,500 miles at a hop, cruising at Mach 1.8. All the weapons have been removed, except for the nosegun, which has no ammo in it."

He picked up a duffel bag from next to the chair he'd been in. "We've got a flight suit in here for you, along with all the equipment you need. As soon as you get changed, we can go ahead and start our globe-trotting adventure tour."

Sarah laughed at the dry humor in his voice. "Sounds good, Captain Williamson. Let me just say good-bye to my husband, and we'll be on our way."

She turned back to Chuck. "Well… this is where we part, for now."

The humor in her voice suddenly gave way to sadness. "If all goes well… I'll see you in Washington on Sunday?"

Chuck smiled and nodded. "Washington on Sunday," he replied.

His smile grew a little bigger. "Everything we've done over the last four and a half years, and here we are, working to save the President."

Williamson overheard him. "Excuse me? Do what now?"

"I'll explain in flight," Sarah replied. "It's a VERY long story."

She walked the few feet that separated her from Chuck, and hugged him. She loved embracing him – he was just tall enough that she could tuck her head under his chin, something she had always loved about him. "We're gonna do it," Sarah said softly. "And then you, and me, and the kids – we can go back home and hopefully be a normal family for a while."

Chuck snorted. "That would be new and different."

Sarah smiled, pulled back, and kissed him. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she said, a note of humor in her voice.

Casey snorted. "There's a remark that's open to interpretation."

Chuck grinned. "Well, let's go blow some shit up, then, Casey!"

Sarah laughed – and reached out and smacked her husband on the ass. He yelped and jumped in surprise.

"I'll see you on Sunday," she said, turning to follow Captain Williamson.

Chuck and Casey watched them walk away, and then Casey turned to Chuck. "You ready to go blow some shit up?"

"No time like the present."

The two men walked back outside to the Herder. As Chuck was pulling out of the Marine Corps Air Station onto Miramar Road, he heard Casey muttering something under his breath that sounded distinctly like, "this man's military."

"Why do you have a problem with Captain Williamson, exactly?"

"Never been entirely comfortable with gay men," Casey admitted. "Call it homophobia, call it what you will."

"Fair enough," Chuck allowed. "But I gotta say, I'm a whole hell of a lot happier with my wife flying around the world with a gay guy than a straight one."

"Hmph," Casey grunted.

Fifteen minutes later, the Herder pulled into the parking lot of University Lutheran Church in La Jolla – right across the street from Casey's safe house. Just as he had predicted, the NSA was there in full force. Two Suburbans and a black Ford van sat on the street outside. All three cars were empty except for their drivers.

"Well," Casey said, an evil grin on his face. "That's at LEAST a dozen Fulcrum agents inside. This is super."

He pulled out his cell phone, dialing a number. "Boy are they gonna be surprised when they find out you can program multiple Incinerators to one number."

He held the phone to his ear. One ring… two rings… three rings…

And then an enormous fireball erupted across the street, as Casey's safe house was blown to kingdom come.

As Chuck and Casey watched in shock and awe, the fireball receded. The walls collapsed outwards, and the roof fell in.

The drivers of the three government vehicles had jumped out of their cars, and were now running toward the wreckage of the house. "Time for us to go," Casey said.

Chuck started the Herder and pulled out of the church parking lot, taking a right on La Jolla Shores and then a left on Torrey Pines Drive. "Where to, señor?" he asked.

"Hop on the 5," Casey replied. "We're goin' back to L.A."


	13. Thursday, Part 3

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 10_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**General Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Victor Ramos - Victor Alfieri  
Captain Mark Charles, LAPD - Michael Cudlitz  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva - John Ortiz

**6:00 PM Eastern Standard Time**

**February 16****th****, 2012**

**Fort Meade, Maryland**

"General Beckman, we have a posident on the use of National Command Authority ID number 4047573 – Agent Sarah Walker – at MCAS Miramar."

Everybody in the room stopped. "Do we have video?" Beckman asked excitedly.

"Yes, ma'am," she heard, and the large high def screen on the wall switched from multiple displays to one large shot – a red and white Toyota Yaris, Chuck Bartowski at the wheel, John Casey riding shotgun, and Sarah Walker leaning forward, ID card in hand.

"That's a Buy More Nerd Herder," Beckman said. "Why didn't we have a GPS track on it?"

"GPS tracker is showing that particular vehicle at 5151 Mission Valley Road in San Diego," was the answer she got. "My guess is that they removed the GPS device and left it when they took the car."

"Do we have any other way of tracking them?"

"They all have clean phones with no GPS locators in them," was the response. "They've all removed their watches – they were left at the Bartowski home in Los Angeles."

"What about local law enforcement? We can report it as a stolen vehicle."

One of the technicians zoomed in on the license plate. Beckman picked up the phone. "I need to be connected to the California Highway Patrol," she informed the operator.

A moment later, she heard a voice in her ear. "California Highway Patrol dispatch. My name is Lucy, how may I assist you?"

"Lucy, my name is General Beckman. I'm with the National Security Agency, authorization code victor one oscar six five nine two. We have had a vehicle stolen, and I need to put out an all points on that vehicle."

She heard typing in the background as Lucy verified that Beckman was who she said she was. "Alright, General Beckman, can you please describe the vehicle and license plate?"

"The vehicle is a red and white Toyota Yaris hatchback which says 'Nerd Herd' on the sides. It has custom plates, sierra delta november hotel one four. Three occupants, two Caucasian males, one Caucasian female. Driver's name is Charles Bartowski; he is thirty years old, six foot three, approximately one hundred seventy pounds. Passengers' names are John Casey, he is thirty-nine years old, six foot four, approximately two hundred ten pounds; and Sarah Walker, she is twenty-nine years old, five foot nine, approximately one hundred thirty pounds. They are to be considered armed and extremely dangerous."

"I copy all that, General Beckman. Can you tell me approximately where the vehicle might be?"

"The last known location of the vehicle was at Marine Corps Air Station Miramar; however, that was approximately three hours ago."

"Alright, we'll distribute this bulletin to all agencies in the Southland and San Diego areas. Is there anything else?"

"If you could call me at this number" – Beckman rattled off her office phone – "as soon as you apprehend the suspects, that would be greatly appreciated."

"Copy that, General Beckman. We'll be in touch as soon as we have information."

And with that, the line went dead. Beckman smiled. "Come into my parlor," she whispered.

* * *

**3:30 PM Pacific Standard Time**

**February 16****th****, 2012**

**Hawthorne Municipal Airport, Los Angeles, California**

"Hey!" Chuck exclaimed, watching the hangar door roll open. "I remember this airplane – I flew it from Moab to Flagstaff!"

"Yes, yes you did," Casey replied, looking at his Lear 35J. "My own personal Learjet. I haven't used her since then, either – rented her out a few times, though, so she hasn't just been sitting here for four years."

"So, what, we're just going to fly directly to Washington and then wait it out till Sunday?"

Casey looked at Chuck like he'd lost his mind. "No, we're going to fly to a little tiny municipal airport in Virginia and then hide out with a friend of mine till Sunday, at which point we'll drive into Washington."

"Oh, joy, three days in the Virginia countryside with John Casey," Chuck groaned. "I can hardly wait."

* * *

Victor Ramos was a private security guard. Employed by Securitas Security Group, he had been assigned to Hawthorne Municipal Airport for just over a year.

He had just stopped by the security office in the small terminal, and was heading out in his Ford Ranger pickup, on his hourly rounds. He was driving past the hangars, when something caught his eye.

Victor stopped the truck, and called into the security office. "Hey, this is Bravo-Seven," he said. "Wasn't there a fax that just came in from CHP about a stolen red and white Toyota Yaris?"

"That's affirmative," was the answer.

"What was the license plate on that?"

"Uh… sierra delta november hotel one four. Why?"

"Well, it's sitting in front of hangar seven."

* * *

Casey had fired up the Lear's engines. He was just taxiing out of the hangar when he heard the sirens.

He looked to the left – and saw a swarm of Los Angeles Police Department cruisers entering the field. "Oh, shit," he muttered, and pushed the Lear's throttles to the stops.

"Can't you call your friend?" Chuck asked, terror in his voice as the Lear fishtailed onto the runway.

"Forget it," Casey replied. "They're on a tactical takedown mission."

He tossed Chuck his phone. "Call speed dial nine, right now."

Chuck didn't argue – he pressed the nine and held it down. Without warning, he heard the roar of an explosion not far behind them.

"What the hell was that?"

"NSA Incinerator, in the back seat of the Herder," Casey replied. "I'm hoping it buys us a little time."

* * *

Mark Charles was stuck in the command center in the Parker Building in downtown Los Angeles. Nothing like being a captain to ruin his fun.

"Captain Charles, this is Lieutenant Mathis," he heard the twenty-year veteran say over the radio. "Suspects have escaped in a Learjet, registration number navajo five five nine jesus christ. Do you wish to notify the Air National Guard?"

"Give me a moment," Charles replied, chuckling at how ridiculous Mathis' personal phonetic alphabet was. He pulled up his interface program and logged into the FAA database.

_Lear model 35J, registration number N559JC, registered to John Casey._

His eyes widened and he keyed his mike. "That is a NEGATIVE. Do NOT notify the Air National Guard. In fact, inform all units to maintain radio silence regarding this operation from here on out, unless they are speaking directly with me, and then over encrypted channels only. Copy?"

"Copy."

A moment later, one of the encrypted radios beeped. "This is Charles."

"Captain Charles, the suspect vehicle was destroyed. No officers were hurt; however, two vehicles did suffer minor damage."

"Lieutenant Mathis, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I do not care what the APB said, we are NOT going to pursue the occupants of that aircraft. They are part of a vital national security mission. Have the remains of the vehicle removed immediately to an impound yard. Do NOT report on this mission to any other agencies. Is that clear?"

"Copy that, Captain."

Charles leaned back. "You better not be blowin' smoke up my ass, John."

* * *

Casey had expected Air National Guard units to be all over the Lear as soon as they left Los Angeles airspace, but there was nothing. After a while, he managed to relax a little. Just to be on the safe side, he took the Lear up to its service ceiling of 45,000 feet.

He could tell Chuck was getting bored – and he couldn't really blame him. After all, Morgan had taken his laptop with him, and the Sony Vaio that they'd gotten from the Buy More that morning had gone along with the Woodcombs – "After all," Casey had said, "what if they need the secure phone again?"

But Casey didn't realize just how bored Chuck had gotten until he heard the younger man humming the theme from _Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood._ Casey laughed. "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor… won't you be mine, won't you be mine?" he sang softly.

Chuck looked over at him and laughed. "Seriously? Did you actually watch that as a kid?"

"Oh, hell yes," Casey replied. "I watched that show every morning. In 1975, when I was three years old, and _Captain Kangaroo_ did a crossover show with Mr. Rogers, I just about crapped my pants."

"I remember that episode of _Captain Kangaroo_!" Chuck said excitedly. "They re-aired it in the late '80s, and I remember that Fred Rogers didn't look any different!"

"The man didn't age," Casey replied. "I could only hope to look as good at the age of 75 as he did when he died."

"Casey," Chuck said, "Mr. Rogers' daily routine wasn't that dangerous. Change out of a suitcoat into a sweater. Zip the sweater up, zip it halfway back down. Take off his work shoes, put on a pair of blue loafers. Reverse at the end of the episode. He wasn't running around killing people and blowing shit up."

"Fair enough," Casey replied.

Chuck started laughing. "Yet more proof that John Casey is a human being."

"Yeah, shut up – oh, wait, that reminds me – can you take the wheel for a moment?"

Chuck shrugged. "Yeah, I've flown this plane before, why not?"

Casey turned over control of the aircraft to him, then reached into his bag and pulled out his cell phone. Turning it on, he waited till it had reception, then dialed.

When the phone was answered, he smiled. "Hey, Maya," he said. "Listen, I just wanted to let you know I'm gonna be out of town for a couple days… got some business to take care of… yeah, it kinda sucks."

As Chuck watched him, an astonished smile growing on his face, Casey said, "I should be back on Monday… you want to join us for poker night again… of course you can stay the night again… hmmm, I definitely like the sounds of that."

Chuck lost it at that point and started cracking up. Casey shot him a filthy look. "No, that's just Chuck Bartowski… yeah, he seems to be amazed that I can actually have a life… hey! That's just uncalled for… okay, maybe you're right… okay. I'll give you a call tomorrow, alright? Bye."

He turned to Chuck, who was sitting there, smiling smugly, but not saying a word. "Shut up, Bartowski."

* * *

**1:30 AM, Brasilia Time**

**February 17****th****, 2012**

**Brasilia, Brazil**

The flight from Miramar to Brasilia had taken seven hours of mind-numbing supersonic flight. Twice they had dropped below the Mach – once over Guatemala, to refuel from a KC-10 flying out of San Antonio, and a second time about a thousand miles out from Brasilia, to refuel from a Brazilian Ilyushin IL-76 tanker.

"Thank God jet-A fuel and refueling drogues are pretty much universal," Captain Williamson observed after topping the tank off.

Sarah, who had never actually seen an in-flight refueling up close and personal before, was simultaneously intrigued and terrified by the process – intrigued at the thought of an aircraft being able to stay up for as long as its mechanical parts would let it, and terrified by the thought of two aircraft essentially mating in mid-air.

"There's something intrinsically erotic about it," Williamson had observed. "What do you think?"

"I think that I was too terrified to even consider those ramifications," Sarah replied. "You fighter pilots are a bunch of lunatics, you know that? Think about the eroticism of mid-air refueling? A sane person would be terrified, but not you!"

"Oh, most fighter pilots are pretty petrified of the whole process," Williamson said. "I'm just a special brand of crazy."

Sarah couldn't argue with that. However, now that they were on the ground in Brasilia, Williamson was about to observe HER special brand of crazy.

The F-18F was parked on a remote hardstand – and sure enough, there was a Chevy Impala waiting for them, just like Sarah had asked Senator Graham to arrange. "You're coming with me," Sarah had informed Williamson.

"What about the plane?"

"It'll be fine. Lock it up, and let's go. I may need a getaway driver."

Sarah looked around herself as they drove through the streets of Brazil. More than six years since she'd last been here. That horribly disastrous mission. Thousands of people dead, and it still weighed on her conscience.

The streets were deserted, and the Presidential residence was dark when they lit it – except for one room. Sarah knew that to be the President's personal office – after all, she'd been there before.

Climbing into the backseat of the Impala, she shucked her flight suit, unconcerned if Williamson saw her in her lingerie. After all, he was gay.

That didn't stop him from commenting. "Wow," he said, looking in the rear view mirror. "Your husband must be a happy man."

"For a gay man, you make more comments about women's bodies," she muttered.

"Hey, I know a good looking woman when I see one," he replied. "I'm gay, not blind."

In response, she threw her flight suit over his head. "Now you're both."

She finished pulling on her black "ninja" outfit, as Chuck and Morgan both liked to call it. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes," she told Williamson as he pulled the flight suit off of his head.

"Copy that."

Like a ghost, Sarah disappeared into the night. One minute Williamson saw her, the next he didn't.

But she was still out there. She silently scaled the fence, avoiding the razor wire and the sensors on top with ease. A thrill filled her as she dropped onto the grounds – she hadn't gotten to do this type of thing in YEARS, and she had forgotten just how fun it was.

Pulling a small grapple gun from her belt, she fired upward. An incredibly thin wire sped upward, and its hook caught on the lip of the roof. Made of a composite of carbon fiber and titanium, it would hold her weight no problem. Hell, it would probably hold Casey's weight no problem.

Moving quickly, she scaled the side of the building, until she was next to the window. She looked over – open. "President Da Silva, you're an idiot sometimes," she muttered to herself.

Pushing herself away from the building, she swung in through his window, landing on the floor. Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, President of Brazil, looked up in alarm at the sound of her feet hitting the floor.

"Holy shit," he swore in Portuguese. "The Operative!"

"Good to see you, too, President Da Silva," Sarah replied. "Agent Sarah Walker Bartowski."

"Why are you here?" he demanded. "When you left six years ago, you swore there would be no more trouble."

"I'm not here to cause trouble," she replied. "I'm here because the President of the United States needs your help."


	14. Friday, Part 1

_**Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 11**_

**CAST (in order of appearance):**  
Chuck "Stan Marsh" Bartowski – Trey Parker  
John "Eric Cartman" Casey – Trey Parker  
Morgan "Kenny McCormick" Grimes – Matt Stone  
Lester "Kyle Broflovski" Patel – Matt Stone  
C**hu**ck Bartow**s**ki – Z**a**char**y **Levi  
**L**t. Co**l**onel John Casey – Ad**a**m B**a**ld**w**i**n  
**A**b**raham Fitzger**al**d – Ned **B**ea**tt**y  
Sa**r**ah W**al**ker Bartowski – Yvonne Strahovski  
Captain Will Williamson – Alex O'Loughlin  
Roger Flanagan – Ian Holm  
First Minister Ian Paisley – Anthony Hopkins  
Martin McGuinness – Colm Meaney  
President Viktor Yuschenko – Philip Glenister  
Sen. Langston Graham – Tony Todd  
Colonel Ron Lesley – Michael O'Neill

**2:30 PM, Mountain Standard Time**

**March 2nd, 1999**

**South Park, Colorado**

Chuck, Casey, Morgan, and Lester came strolling out of the movie theatre. "That movie STILL kicks ass!" Chuck declared

"Yeah," Casey replied, "but that whole part about lighting farts on fire is bullshit. That doesn't actually work."

"Yeah it does," Morgan rebuked him. "I've done it before!"

"No, it doesn't," Casey insisted.

"Yes it does!"

"Fine! Morgan, you think it works, go ahead. Light a fart on fire. Here – here are some matches!"

Morgan looked at Casey balefully, but took the box of matches. Lighting one, he held it up to his behind, bent over, and farted. Sure enough, a jet of flame shot out behind him –

And then the flame enveloped his entire body! "AAAHAHHHAH!" Morgan screamed.

"Holy shit, dude!" Chuck yelled.

"Ah! Put it out! Put it out!" Casey hollered. He looked around frantically. There was a stick lying on the ground. He picked it up and started whacking at Morgan with it, trying to put the flames out.

But his efforts were futile as the stick itself caught fire. "Ah! This stick is on fire!" shouted Casey, still whacking away at Morgan.

A wailing siren sounded as an ambulance rounded the corner. It screamed up to the curb and screeched to a halt – and was immediately rear-ended by a salt truck. The salt truck fishtailed from the impact, knocking its rear end up onto the curb. The impact jostled open the tailgate – and its entire payload of salt spilled out onto Morgan, burying him in a mountain of salt.

Casey, Chuck, and Lester looked wide eyed at the scene, and then Chuck and Lester both turned accusing glares on Casey.

"Oh my God, you killed Morgan!" Chuck shouted.

"YOU BASTARD!" Lester added.

And then –

* * *

**6:30 AM, Eastern Standard Time**

**February 17th, 2012**

**Bumpass, Virginia**

Chuck Bartowski jolted awake and sat bolt upright. "Holy crap!" he shouted as he came to.

His shout roused John Casey, sleeping in the other twin bed in the room.

"What the hell are you goin' on about over there, Bartowski?" he grumbled sleepily.

Chuck turned and gave Casey the evil eye. "Did you drug me last night?"

"Yes," Casey replied. "You were having trouble sleeping, so I gave you a glass of water with an NSA sleep agent in it."

"Goddammit, Casey," Chuck growled, "you know I have freaky dreams when I get drugged!"

"Shut up and go back to sleep, Bartowski. We have to sit tight for at least the next day, so you might as well stock up on your sleep."

Casey was right. They were hiding out in the middle of nowhere, Virginia – what kind of town had the name "Bumpass", anyway? – with Casey's friend, Abraham. And Abraham was a frightening character – he looked like something out of_Deliverance_.

"Crap," Chuck muttered, as he rolled over and went back to sleep.

* * *

**11:33 AM, Greenwich Mean Time (6:33 AM EST)**

**Belfast, Northern Ireland**

"Dart One, you are cleared for immediate landing," the tower controller's voice sounded in Sarah's headset. "Welcome to Belfast."

"Thank you kindly," Captain Williamson replied. He deployed the flaps, dropping the Hornet's speed to just over 150 miles per hour.

Another long flight in the USMC F-18F. This one had been six hours, flying from Brasilia to Belfast. It had involved another two inflight refuelings – one with a KC-135 flying out of Eglin Air Force Base in Florida, and another with a British Vickers VC-10 flying out of RAF Lakenheath. On the second one, Williamson – who was absolutely loopy from a lack of sleep – had started making obscene groaning noises. "Oh yeah, I always like the Brits better," he had moaned.

Ordinarily, that kind of behavior would've aggravated Sarah no end. However, with as little sleep as she'd gotten, she found it rather amusing, and had to turn off her headset mike to keep her giggling from being transmitted over the channel between the two aircraft.

After the Hornet was on the ground and had slowed to below fifty miles per hour, Sarah pulled out her cell phone – well, the cell phone that Casey had gotten from the questionable dealer in Downey. She turned it on – and found she had a text message.

It was from Senator Graham. "Mtg arr IP 1230."

Meeting arranged, with Northern Irish First Minister Ian Paisley, 12:30 PM. She smiled. She didn't know how the hell Graham had accomplished that, but it was certainly easier than doing a stealth insertion into Paisley's office.

As Williamson parked the Hornet, an ancient looking car came rolling up to the aircraft. An equally ancient looking man climbed out of the car as Williamson popped the canopy.

"No offense," Sarah said, "but what the hell is that?"

"Oh, that's a Ford Cortina, love. Once upon a time the greatest muscle car on the roads of Britain. Ye'd know it better as a Torino."

Sarah couldn't help but laugh. Her father had had a Gran Torino when she was younger – and he thought it was the shit, until one day Sarah came home and called him "Starsky." Then he thought that HE was the shit.

"I'm Roger Flanagan," the old man introduced himself. "Aide to Minister Paisley. And would I be correct in thinkin' yer Sarah Walker?"

"That would be me," she replied.

"Then we'd better be on our way," Flanagan said. "The minister's expectin' ye for lunch."

Williamson was left with the aircraft this time. As Flanagan drove Sarah through Belfast on her way to see Minister Paisley, she couldn't help but think about the last time she was here.

That trip had been the beginning of the end for her and Bryce. She had told him about some of her past missions, and he'd practically gone through the roof. It was odd, really – he was a trained field agent, and he'd gone ballistic over things he KNEW she had to have done, and yet, when she had told Chuck about the same missions, Chuck had reacted calmly.

There was a reason why one of them was off hunting Fulcrum and the other was her husband. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Of course, the one mission she had told Bryce about that she could NEVER tell Chuck about was Alexander Litvinenko. She could never tell anybody else about that one, ever, although she had a feeling of unease that somewhere, deep within the Intersect, there was a file on the mission. Sarah prayed every time she heard the name mentioned that Chuck wouldn't flash on it.

The car arrived at the Stormont at a quarter after twelve – a little early, but that was okay. Flanagan led Sarah inside Northern Ireland's Parliament building, getting her a visitor's pass on the way in.

Sarah followed Flanagan through the corridors of the Stormont, until they arrived at an office with a simple placard on the door: "First Minister, I. Paisley."

Flanagan knocked on the door. "Enter at yer own risk!" Sarah heard from within.

Flanagan opened the door, ushering Sarah into the office. Ian Paisley sat on a couch in the center of the office, with another man who looked very familiar facing him.

"May I presume that ye are Miss Sarah Walker?" Paisley asked, a cheerful lilt to his voice.

"Well, yes, I am Sarah Walker, but I'm not a 'Miss'," she replied. "My legal name is Mrs. Sarah Bartowski, but that's pretty much irrelevant."

Paisley raised his eyebrows and looked over at the other man. "Oh, not at all! It seems to me like ye've got a damn lucky husband, Mrs. Bartowski! What do ye think, Marty?"

"Oh, aye," the other man replied.

Then Paisley looked from the man to Sarah. "And where's me manners," he said, realizing he hadn't introduced the two. "Sarah Walker, this is Martin McGuinness, former deputy first minister of Northern Ireland."

She raised an eyebrow. "Interesting that you're here," she said. "This actually concerns both of you."

"Well, if you wouldn't mind, we'll get to our afternoon repast first," Paisley said, "and you can tell us about it over lunch."

Lunch was very traditional Irish fare – shepherd's pie and Guinness. Sarah decided to forgo the "sandwich in a bottle", as Chuck called the Irish beer, and asked for water instead.

"So, do tell us what brings ye here to Eire," Paisley said.

Sarah swallowed the food in her mouth, took a drink of water, and said, "Do you remember, just before home rule began back in 2007, that a group of four men was shot dead in a pub not far from here? And that when Scotland Yard investigated, they discovered that those four men were plotting to assassinate Mr. McGuinness?"

Paisley raised his eyebrows, and McGuinness leaned back in his chair. "I remember that quite well," the former IRA man said. "Closest anybody's ever come to actually sendin' me to the great man in the sky."

Sarah looked back at McGuinness. "You should know," she said, "I'm the one who took them out."

McGuinness' eyes widened, and he looked over at Paisley – and then smiled. "Alright, Ian, pay up!"

Paisley's eyes narrowed, and he grumbled something in Irish Gaelic, but he reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. He pulled out a twenty pound note and passed it to McGuinness.

Sarah was confused. "What was that all about?"

"We've had a bet about that for nearly five years," McGuinness said, a note of humor in his voice as he pocketed the twenty. "Ian here was convinced that it was a Brit job, that Five took care of it. I told him that the Brits could've cared less if Belfast burned, that it had to have been the Americans. And it would appear that I was right."

Sarah smiled. "So it would seem that we owe ye," Paisley added. "Would I be correct in thinkin' that yer here to collect?"

"Yes, indeed," Sarah said. "But I don't need the favor. Gentlemen, what would you think if I told you that the President of the United States needs your help?"

* * *

**9:00 AM, Eastern Standard Time**

**Bumpass, Virginia**

Chuck was incredibly bored. There was only so much you could do in a hillbilly's farm house when he didn't have so much as basic cable. While Chuck and Casey did have an amusing time watching an hour of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood on PBS, that ended quickly – and there was nothing else on broadcast TV.

"God I'm bored…"

Casey stood up. "Then let's do something about that. Go get Walker's gun, meet me out in the barn in five."

"Oh, joy."

But Chuck did exactly what Casey instructed. He went to the bedroom and retrieved Sarah's Colt 1911A1, and then headed outside to the barn.

Casey was in the process of drawing a bullseye on a big piece of cardboard. When he finished, he set it up on a hay bale at the opposite end of the barn from Chuck. "Alright," Casey said. "We're gonna work on your shooting skills."

"My what now?" Chuck asked, incredulous.

Casey shook his head. "Your gun. Turn the safety off."

Chuck looked at the gun and found the safety. "Okay," he said, flipping it off.

"Now, pull back the slide and chamber a round."

Chuck obeyed. "You have there a semi-automatic handgun," Casey informed him. "That means that you don't have to re-cock or re-chamber between rounds. Each time you squeeze the trigger from now on, you will fire, until your clip is empty. Alright?"

"Casey, I'm not sure about this…"

"Alright, pretend the target down there is a guy with a gun pointed at Walker."

Chuck frowned. "I think Sarah could take better care of herself than I could."

Casey sighed in exasperation. "Fine, he's got a gun pointed at your kids."

Chuck's eyes widened. Turning toward the target, he aimed the gun, "gangsta" style at the target and unloaded all nine rounds in the clip. He heard a cat yowl in protest, and saw a pigeon drop to the floor of the barn. The cat perched itself in the corner and growled angrily at Chuck. The pigeon was beyond help – a .40 caliber bullet through its body.

When he turned back to Casey, the NSA agent's face had taken on a look of sheer amusement. "That was quite possibly the most horrible job of shooting I've ever seen. First of all, don't ever hold your gun like that. You look like an idiot. Actually, no. You look like a gamer."

Chuck gave Casey an evil glare, but he was right. "Hold the gun in both hands, like… this," Casey continued, demonstrating.

He pulled out his Glock and held it clasped in both hands, index finger of his right hand on the trigger guard. "Now, stand with your feet at least shoulder width – it'll give you better balance."

Chuck, watching Casey, did as he said. "Alright," Casey said. "Now, when you shoot, make sure you're looking at your target, and take your time."

Casey set himself, looked downrange at the target, and then fired. The Glock's eleven bullet clip was emptied quickly – and as Chuck watched, the cardboard target jumped eleven times, Casey putting every single round within a one inch radius.

"Damn," Chuck breathed.

"Alright," Casey said. "Pop your clip."

Chuck hit the button to eject the empty clip. "Reload," Casey ordered, handing Chuck a box of .40 caliber ammunition.

That part actually wasn't very difficult. When he was finished, Chuck slapped the clip back into the Colt. "Try again," Casey said.

Chuck pulled back the slide, chambering a round. He set his feet, brought the gun up in both hands, looked at his target, aimed, and fired. Nine bullets – and this time, all nine hit the target. In fact, they were all within a foot of each other.

"Not bad, Bartowski," Casey told him. "Maybe all those video games paid off after all. Now, reload and let's do it again."

* * *

**5:00 PM, Ukraine Time (10:00 AM, EST)**

**Kiev, Ukraine**

After lunch with the Northern Irish ministers, Sarah had headed back to the airport. Williamson had the Hornet refueled, hot, and ready to go the moment she got on board, and they lifted off at 1:50 PM local time.

With the trip to Kiev only being about 1500 miles, there was no need to refuel, so Williamson pushed the throttles all the way open, and the trip took just over an hour. With the Ukraine two hours ahead of Northern Ireland, they landed at 5:00 PM local time.

A Zil military jeep was parked on the tarmac – but no driver. "Alright, Williamson, you're driving again," Sarah told him.

She remembered exactly where the house was – it had been nearly seven years, but she still remembered. Williamson navigated the streets of Kiev like a native as Sarah directed him to the house, and twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of it.

Sarah jumped out of the Zil and approached the door. "Nyet!" the security guard standing on the porch informed her, aiming his AK-47 at her.

"Please, I need to see the President," she responded in Russian.

"Nyet!" the security guard barked again.

Sarah sighed. "Tell Viktor that a Blackjack dealer is here to see him. He'll understand."

The security guard raised an eyebrow at Sarah's use of Yuschenko's first name, but he went inside. A moment later, he came back out. "You may enter," he said in Russian.

Sarah stepped inside the house, and was escorted to the dining room. "Ah, Agent Walker," President Viktor Yuschenko said, rising from the table. "It has been so long – and yet, you have still not learned Ukrainian."

Sarah smiled, bowing her head. "My apologies, Mr. President," she replied.

"So, Sarah Walker, how are you?"

"It's actually Sarah Walker Bartowski now, Mr. President."

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Married to a very lucky young Polish man, yes?"

Sarah had never thought of Chuck that way. "Well, his family's lineage is Polish, but he's a second-generation American."

"I see," Yuschenko replied. "And you are a mother now, I think?"

She narrowed her eyes. "How could you possibly know that?"

The Ukrainian President smiled. "Ah, Agent Walker – or should I say, Mrs. Bartowski – you forget, I am married, and have children of my own. When a woman becomes a mother, she changes – there is a different look about her, a different, shall we say, aura. You are no longer the angry young woman you were seven years ago. You are clearly a mother, and a happy one at that."

Sarah shook her head. She had always prided herself on being unreadable, but Viktor Yuschenko had amazed her with his ability to read her seven years before, and now was doing so again. _Maybe that's how he got elected_, she thought.

"But I am wasting your time, Agent Walker," Yuschenko said. "What can I do for you?"

"Mr. President, the President of the United States needs your help. On Monday, a group of high-ranking military officials are going to attempt to launch a coup d'état to remove him from office."

Yuschenko just stared. "Why would they do such a thing? He has helped to bring peace to the world, convinced the nations of the world that nuclear weapons are unnecessary!"

"That's why," Sarah replied. "They believe that he is weakening the United States."

Yuschenko shook his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "But I do not understand – what can I do to help the President?"

"Fly to Washington tomorrow," Sarah replied. "Meet with the President on Sunday, and issue a joint statement declaring your support of the nuclear disarmament treaty."

"I am but one nation's leader," Yuschenko protested. "What good will I do?"

"You will not be alone," Sarah said. "You will be joined by First Minister Ian Paisley of Northern Ireland, President Luis Da Silva of Brazil, and provided my meeting in Belgrade goes well, President Boris Tadić of Serbia."

"And why will those three be there?"

"Because they all owe me a favor," Sarah said simply. "Because without me, all three of their countries would be in chaos, and none of them would be where they are today."

Viktor Yuschenko cocked his head and looked at Sarah strangely. "But I owe you nothing. It is you who owe me a favor, if I remember correctly."

"This is true, Mr. President," Sarah admitted. "You owe me nothing. However, I believe you to be a good man, one who wishes to see democracy succeed, one who would truly not want to see the United States' government fall."

Yuschenko stared at Sarah, looking at her for quite a long time. Finally, he spoke.

"You are very wise, very perceptive, Agent Walker. All of that is true. The United States is a valuable ally. I do not wish to see your government fall."

He sighed. "I will fly to Washington tomorrow morning. Does the President know that I am coming?"

"He'll know, Mr. President. And thank you."

* * *

**9:42 AM, Central Standard Time**

**El Paso International Airport, El Paso, Texas**

The unmarked white CIA jet swooped out of the sky. Onboard was one passenger – the junior US Senator from North Carolina, Langston Graham.

He had flown to El Paso under the guise of doing a Congressional inspection of Fort Bliss. In reality, John Casey through Director Tyler had requested that he go there to take a closer look at the ECOMCON facility. Casey's reasoning had apparently been that there was nobody better to examine it than a former spy with far too much access.

A black sedan with "US Army" on the doors was waiting at the executive terminal. "Senator Graham?" asked the uniformed man leaning against the car.

"That's me," Graham confirmed.

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Colonel Ron Lesley, executive officer for Fort Bliss. I understand you're coming to take a look at our little command facility?"

"That's correct," Graham told the Army officer. "You know, the intelligence committee just wants to know a little more about what's going on down here. No big deal, really."

"Excellent," Lesley replied, reaching out to shake Graham's hand. Graham took it – and felt a pinprick on the palm of his hand.

His eyes went wide, and he jerked his hand away from Lesley's – but it was too late. He could already feel his knees buckling.

"You must think Fulcrum's stupid, Senator Graham," Lesley said as Graham dropped to the tarmac. "But don't worry. We'll make you comfortable. You'll enjoy being our guest at Fort Bliss."

And the world went black.


	15. Friday, Part 2

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 12_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**General Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
President Boris Tadić - Mark Harmon  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Abraham Fitzgerald - Ned Beatty  
Lt. Commander Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer

**12:15 PM, Eastern Standard Time**

**February 17****th****, 2012**

**Fort Meade, Maryland**

General Beckman strode into the conference room, a smile on her face and a purposeful gleam in her eyes. "Alright, people, tell me what we've got."

One aide stood. "Senator Langston Graham was apprehended at El Paso International Airport," he reported. "He claimed to be going to El Paso for a Congressional inspection of the Fort Bliss command facilities. Our man at Fort Bliss saw through that story, and has placed him into custody at the fort."

"Excellent," Beckman said. "What else?"

"CIA Agent Sarah Walker has been spotted in Belgrade," another aide reported. "Not even five minutes ago, one of our people happened to be at the airport and saw her disembarking from a Marine Corps F/A-18 Hornet. She and the pilot got into a car and drove away."

Beckman's smile got a little bigger. "Have our people in Belgrade put surveillance on the plane. When Walker comes back, they are to detain her."

She looked down the table. "Anything else?"

"Oh, I think you'll like this one, General," said yet another aide, rising to his feet. "About two hours ago, there was a report phoned in to the Louisa County, Virginia, sheriff's office. Apparently, there was a large amount of handgun fire in a twenty minute span, and it was heard on several properties in the surrounding area.

"A deputy was sent out to investigate. He was greeted at the door of the house by the property owner, an individual by the name of Abraham Fitzgerald."

That name set off a warning bell in Beckman's head. Why did that sound familiar?

"Our computers picked up on that because Abraham Fitzgerald is apparently a retired off-the-books NSA asset. His controller was John Casey."

And that's when Beckman remembered. A terrifying night in March of 2008. Abducted in her own car by Chuck Bartowski's sister Eleanor. Threatened at gunpoint by Sarah Walker. Dragged into this hillbilly's house by John Casey, and so terrorized that she blurted out the location where Bartowski was being held.

"Who was firing the guns?" Beckman demanded.

"There were two gentlemen in the barn, taking target practice on a makeshift target," the aide replied, a smug grin growing on his face. "They presented California driver's licenses in the names of Charles Carmichael and Casey Johnson. A quick search of the California DMV database gave us…"

He hit a button on the desk, and a large image popped up on the screen. "These two."

The faces of Chuck Bartowski and John Casey stared down at Beckman. "Well, well, well," Beckman said with a grin. "Get an NSA strike team moving. Right now. Tell them not to make any stupid mistakes like the one in California."

Her smile grew larger as she stared at the screen. "I got you now, boys!"

* * *

**6:20 PM, Belgrade Time (12:20 PM EST)**

**Belgrade, Serbia**

Captain Will Williamson, USMC, drove Sarah through the streets of Belgrade, bound for the National Assembly, where President Boris Tadić kept his offices. The drive alone brought memories back to her – long buried memories.

This was one mission that she HAD shared with Chuck. He had flashed on a newspaper article about the so-called "Phantom of Belgrade". Fearing that he would learn about it without her telling him, she told him all about the mission to take down eight rogue members of what was then Yugoslavia's government – men who wanted to turn the Balkans into the next Aryan state.

Sarah had feared an adverse reaction from Chuck. What she hadn't been expecting was for his jaw to drop, for him to say, "Cooool…" and then for him to tell her that he rather liked the fact that he was married to the female Bond.

She smiled as she remembered that little incident… and the fact that there had been a fair amount of, to put it politely, role-playing fun and games that had spawned from it. Her smile faded, though, as she thought about the fact that if her mission failed, then she and Chuck and their kids would spend the rest of their lives as international fugitives – if they survived.

As Sarah watched the National Assembly building grow in the windshield, she got into what Williamson called her "game mode". She mentally prepared herself for the task at hand, thought out exactly what she was going to say to Tadić, how she could convince him to help her with this task.

The game changed suddenly, though, when they reached the National Assembly, and Sarah saw what could only have been a crowd of reporters out front. "Hmmm," she murmured. "Time to change the game plan."

Williamson shook his head. "I don't know how you spooks do this kind of thing."

"Years and years of training and practice, Will," Sarah replied. "You have a notepad and a pen in your flight suit?"

"Of course I do," he replied. "Pilots never go anywhere without them."

He opened a Velcroed pocket, withdrew a small notepad and a pen, and handed them to Sarah. "Thank you," she said. "Do I look like I could pass as a reporter?"

"Not really," Williamson replied honestly. "But consider where we are – beautiful blue eyed, blonde haired woman in Belgrade with an American accent? You should have no problem getting whatever you want."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Will."

The car stopped across the street from the National Assembly, and Sarah jumped out. Running across the street, she joined the teeming throng of journalists – and sure enough, a moment later, Boris Tadić came walking out the front door.

"MR. PRESIDENT! MR. PRESIDENT!" The shouts sounded all around her, as journalists, desperate to get a quote on the never-ending situation in Kosovo, threw their entreaties at the President of Serbia.

Elbowing her way to the front of the crowd, Sarah waited patiently for the Serbian President to draw even with her. As he approached, she raised her voice and said, "Mr. President! I have information on the Phantom of Belgrade!"

That remark stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked her in the eyes, and pointed. "You. Come here."

The two security line keeping the reporters back parted to allow Sarah through. She jogged over to the President. A bodyguard patted her down, removing her Desert Eagle from her waistband and her throwing knives from her ankle. "A girl's gotta be careful, sir," she said when Tadić gave her an amused look.

"Take a ride with me," he said in accented but fluent English.

His bodyguard held the back door of the Presidential BMW limousine open. Tadić got in, followed by Sarah.

"So, tell me what you know about the Phantom of Belgrade," Tadić began. "My country owes him a great debt."

"I AM the Phantom of Belgrade," Sarah replied. "Agent Sarah Walker, Central Intelligence Agency."

"The CIA, eh?" Tadić replied, the look of amusement on his face growing. "And here all these years I thought it was the FSB. You know, they want another fascist Aryan state about as much as they want the Czars to come back."

Sarah nodded. "Nonetheless, it was me," she said. "I eliminated six of the Belgrade eight, and hired a third party to take care of two of them."

Tadić nodded. "So, we in Serbia owe you a great deal. May I assume you are here to, perhaps, collect?"

"I am," Sarah confirmed. "President Tadić, the President of the United States needs your help."

* * *

**12:30 PM, Eastern Standard Time**

**Bumpass, Virginia**

After funtime with guns and targets, Chuck and Casey had looked for something else to pass the time – and found it in a pair of fishing rods and two pairs of waders.

Casey had lamented the fact that he hadn't been fishing in years, and Chuck said he'd never gone at all. So Casey decided it was time for the Intersect to do a little fishing.

They had donned the waders and headed down to the creek at the end of Abraham's property. A little consultation with Abraham had revealed that the creek was home to more than a few trout – in fact, if they were going down to the creek, they could feel free to bring dinner back with them.

Chuck had struggled mightily at first. He couldn't figure out how to cast properly, and Casey was just beginning to feel sorry for him, when Chuck had a flash out of nowhere.

When he came out of it, Casey asked, "What the hell did you flash on in the middle of the Virginia countryside?"

"The fishing rod!" Chuck responded in disbelief. "I flashed on it, and now I know how to do this!"

And sure enough, he did a picture-perfect cast, his line reeling out and the bait dropping into the water.

"Un-friggin'-believable," Casey muttered.

They did this for about an hour, and between them, had caught about a half dozen trout, when they heard a bit of a ruckus from up toward the house. Casey heard two separate truck engines, followed by slamming doors.

A moment later, he heard shouting. It was indecipherable from this far away, but he could tell Abraham's voice from a few other men.

And then, there was an unquestionable sound – a gunshot sounded across the countryside.

Chuck and Casey both turned and looked at each other. "Out of the water. Right now!" Casey ordered quietly.

Both men stumbled out of the creek, shucking their waders as they went. Casey pulled his Glock from behind his back, and indicated that Chuck should do the same with Sarah's Colt.

Chuck held the gun nervously as he followed Casey along the creek bank. Then a new noise made both of them freeze.

It was somebody speaking over a bullhorn. "COLONEL CASEY!" the voice called. "MISTER BARTOWSKI! WE KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE! SURRENDER NOW, OR WE WILL HUNT YOU DOWN!"

* * *

**8:00 PM, Belgrade Time (2:00 PM EST)**

**Belgrade, Serbia**

Sarah was quite pleased on the drive back to the airport. She now had four heads of state set to fly to Washington tomorrow, to appear with the President on Sunday, to release a joint statement praising the nuclear disarmament treaty. It might not stop Fulcrum from going ahead with the ECOMCON plan, but having the four national leaders there might at least give them pause.

However, when they pulled onto the grounds of Nikola Tesla International Airport, her heart skipped a beat. Williamson, not noticing anything, had turned and headed directly for the Hornet.

"Stop," she ordered him. He didn't say anything – just brought the car to a stop. "There's two black cars parked over by the Hornet, and a number of men in airport uniforms around it."

"They're probably just curious," Williamson replied. "After all, how often do you think they see an American fighter jet?"

"No," Sarah insisted. "Look closely at the men in the uniforms. See how their uniforms bulge around the chest? They're all wearing Kevlar vests."

"Shit," Williamson breathed. "Ramp workers I know don't wear Kevlar."

"No, they certainly don't," Sarah agreed. "Turn the car around – slowly, don't attract attention, and head to the other end of the airport. There's a section with disused aircraft over there – I think we can hide for a while."

Williamson did as Sarah instructed, and headed to the other end of the airport. Reaching the "junkyard", as he termed it, he pulled the old Toyota Camry in between two Piper Cubs that had seen better days.

Sarah got out of the Camry, and Williamson followed. She peeked out from between the aircraft, pointing her binoculars at the other end of the airport. "They're not leaving," she said.

Williamson ducked out as well – and something stopped him dead. "Look at that," he said.

"What?"

Captain Williamson grabbed Sarah's arm, and pointed. "That," he replied. "It's a Grumman C-2A Greyhound. US Navy aircraft, used for delivering items and people to aircraft carriers. It looks to be in pretty good shape, too – I bet there's a fair to middlin' chance we could fly it out of here."

Sarah looked at him. "You've flown one of those before?"

"Agent Walker, I'm rated in every type in the US Marine Corps and US Navy's inventory, helicopters included. If it's got a stick and an engine, I can fly it."

He looked at Sarah, completely seriously. She stared back at him for a moment, and then said, "Wow, you meant that seriously, with no double entendre. I'm impressed."

Williamson played back the comment in his mind, and his face fell. "Damn," he said. "I could've made that so dirty. I can't believe I missed that."

Sarah smiled. "Maybe next time."

And with that, she darted out from between the two Pipers, running across the tarmac to where the Greyhound sat. She reached up to the handle on the hatch, and pulled it open –

Sarah Walker came face to face with a rather well-formed, well-toned naked female behind bouncing up and down in a man's lap. There was really no question what was going on there.

Then she looked a little further upward, and saw the face connected to the lap. Her eyes widened as she recognized the face.

It was all Sarah could do not to laugh as she opened her mouth and said, "Hello, Bryce."

* * *

**2:15 PM, Eastern Standard Time**

**Bumpass, Virginia**

Chuck and Casey had managed to avoid the NSA strike team for a while by staying within the tree line, but then they heard the unmistakable sound of dogs barking. "In the creek," Casey ordered.

Chuck complied without so much as a word. The two men ran downstream, staying in the water to throw the dogs off of their scent.

But then the trees ended. The creek kept running on through a flat meadow. "There's no cover out there," Casey muttered.

"Yeah, but those men aren't too far behind us!" Chuck replied.

"Alright, stay low and keep going," Casey said.

The two men crouched as low as they could and still keep moving at a rapid rate. They moved along the creek, and seemed to be making progress –

And then Casey heard it. The distinctive _whup-whup-whup_ of the two-blade rotor of a Huey helicopter.

"Shit," he breathed. He looked to the north, where the sound was coming from. Chuck looked up with him.

A UH-1H Huey was flying in, door gunners on both sides. It was accompanied by two AH-1W Huey Cobras, one on either side of it.

Chuck saw the helicopters, and his eyes widened.

"We are so screwed."


	16. Friday, Part 3

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 13_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Dr. Samuel Tyler, DCI - John Simm  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Lt. Commander Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
Carina Miller - Mini Anden

**2:15 PM, Eastern Standard Time**

**February 17****th****, 2012**

**Bumpass, Virginia**

Casey and Chuck crouched as low as they could and dashed out into the meadow, keeping to the creek. They felt like they were making progress, putting distance between themselves and the NSA strike team –

And then Casey heard it. The distinctive _whup-whup-whup_ of the two-blade rotor of a Huey helicopter.

"Shit," he breathed. He looked to the north, where the sound was coming from. Chuck looked up with him.

A UH-1H Huey was flying in, door gunners on both sides. It was accompanied by two AH-1W Huey Cobras, one on either side of it.

Chuck saw the helicopters, and his eyes went wide. "We are so screwed," he whispered, fear making his voice shake.

"Get DOWN, Bartowski," Casey hissed, grabbing Chuck by the belt and dragging him down into the creek.

The helicopters swooped in low over the pair – and then something odd happened. The two Cobras broke off – one headed for the treeline, and another for the farmhouse, while the Huey flared to land just south of where Chuck and Casey were hidden.

Then a sound like a buzzsaw erupted from the Cobra over the trees as it began firing its guns – _on the NSA strike team!_Casey realized in disbelief. Then, there were one, two, three eruptions of flame as the Cobra by the farmhouse fired Hellfire missiles on the NSA trucks.

As the Huey landed, a man in a suit jumped out. "BARTOWSKI! CASEY!" he shouted.

CIA Director Sam Tyler.

The two men popped up, guns ready to fire at a moments notice. Tyler saw them and began running toward them. "WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!" he shouted. "THERE'S TWO F-16S ON THE WAY TO NAPALM THIS PLACE!"

That spurred the two men into action quicker than anything else could've. They started running toward the Huey as if the hounds of hell were coming for them.

Chuck and Casey jumped into the Huey, Tyler directly behind them. As soon as they were buckled in, the pilot of the Huey pulled back on the collective, lifting the Vietnam-era helicopter off the ground.

Once the Huey started moving forward and away from the farm, the two Cobras broke off their attacks and followed it. "HOW'D YOU KNOW WE WERE OUT HERE?" Casey shouted to Tyler over the sound of the helicopter.

"NSA INTERCEPTED A SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT CALL FOR TWO MEN OUT HERE FIRING GUNS, YOU DUMBASSES," Tyler shouted back. "FORTUNATELY FOR YOU, WE'VE BEEN MONITORING NSA'S EVERYTHING FOR THE LAST DAY!"

Casey and Chuck looked at each other sheepishly. They had brought the NSA down on themselves. "SORRY!" Casey yelled.

"THERE'LL BE TIME FOR APOLOGIES LATER," Tyler shouted. "ART GRAHAM'S BEEN CAPTURED BY FULCRUM AT FORT BLISS. HE'S IN THEIR CUSTODY."

"SHIT!" Casey swore. "HOW QUICKLY CAN WE GET TO A SECURE PHONE?"

Tyler turned to the pilot, and made a whirling motion with his hand. The pilot shot back one finger, and then five.

"FIFTEEN MINUTES!"

* * *

**Belgrade, Serbia**

A head of brunette hair whipped around quickly, its face turning bright red as it turned to face Sarah. Commander Rachel Harrison almost fell out of the aircraft climbing off of Bryce Larkin's lap.

Sarah Walker stood outside the C-2A Greyhound, hands on her hips as she watched Rachel scramble into the back of the aircraft and Bryce rapidly pull up his pants. He made a face as he fastened the button.

"Uncomfortable there a bit, Bryce?" Sarah teased.

"Just… don't even start," he replied. "I've spent the last forty-eight hours cooped up in this aircraft with her, and things got a little out of control."

"Gosh," Sarah said mockingly, "where HAVE I heard that one before? Oh, right. Cabo San Lucas, June 2005."

Bryce looked at Sarah, and his face went from irritated to incredibly hurt in that heartbeat. "No, Bryce… I'm sorry…"

"Why would you even say something like that, Sarah?" he shot back. "Do you have any idea how much it killed me when you went driving off in Cabo? And then when I had to disappear? And then, when you picked Chuck over me?"

He sighed. "I mean, no offense, I would never want to go back to that, but still. Picking at an old wound like that is just not kosher."

That's when Will Williamson came strolling up to the aircraft. He saw Bryce, and turned an appraising eye on him. "Howdy," he said with a smile.

"Forget it, Will," Sarah told him. "I mean, yeah, Bryce apparently has something for aircraft carrier pilots, since I just caught him… umm…"

"Banging?" Will added helpfully. "Screwing? Sexing up? Fu-"

"THANK YOU, yes," Sarah interrupted him. "However, the pilot appeared to be of the female persuasion."

Will shrugged. "I can be persuasive."

Bryce looked from Sarah to Will and back to Sarah. "I'm sorry, did I miss something?"

"Will, this is Bryce Larkin, CIA," Sarah said. "Bryce, this is Captain Will Williamson, United States Marine Corps."

Bryce reached out and shook Will's hand. "What does that have to do with him being persuasive?"

They both stared at him. "God, are you stupid sometimes," Sarah muttered shaking her head.

"I'll stop playing mindgames with you, Agent Larkin," Williamson said. "I'm gay."

"Oh," Bryce said. Then he stopped. "There really is nothing else to say to that, is there?"

Williamson stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Bryce, I can't keep this up anymore."

Bryce too burst out laughing. "Okay," Sarah said, feeling a little annoyed, "now I'm the one who thinks I missed something."

"Will and I went to high school together, Sarah," Bryce replied.

"Yep, and I thought Bryce was hot back then too," Will added.

Sarah put her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes. "I swear, I work with crazy people," she sighed.

* * *

The Huey flared and landed on the roof of the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Neither Casey nor Chuck had ever been inside this building, but it looked like that was about to change.

Tyler pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "This is Tyler, secure," he said as he headed toward the door into the building. "I want every camera between the helipad and my office shut down, and I want all personnel between the helipad and my office cleared."

He opened the door. "Gentlemen," he said, "if you would accompany me?"

Chuck and Casey followed Tyler into the CIA building. As they went down the corridors, they noticed that there were no lights on – just the emergency lights. "I guess that's one way to shut down the cameras," Tyler muttered.

The halls were deserted. It was almost eerie. They took the stairs down to the administrative floor. Tyler led them across a large area of desks and cubicles, to a door marked "S. Tyler, DCI." He opened the door with a traditional key and led them inside.

"Secure phone," he said, pointing toward his desk. Lifting his standard phone, he dialed an extension. "Bring the lights back up, but leave the cameras off," he said, and then paused for a moment. "I really don't CARE what you have to do to do it, I'm the director and I told you to do it!"

Casey picked up the secure phone and dialed. He waited a moment, and then the phone was answered.

"This is Miller, secure."

"John Casey, secure."

"Casey! Did you miss me? Are you calling me because you want to get tied to the headboard again?"

Casey grimaced at the memory of Carina Miller tying him to the headboard of a bed – once voluntarily, once not so much. "No, Carina, I'm calling you because I need your help."

Upon hearing Carina's name, Chuck's eyes went wide. "Carina?" he said. "Are you kidding me?"

"Shut UP," Casey hissed, but Carina had heard Chuck's voice.

"Is that that cute analyst Chuck?" she asked Casey. "Can I talk to him?"

"He's married, Carina," Casey growled. "Can we talk?"

"Not until I talk to Chuck," Carina replied sweetly.

Casey rolled his eyes and grunted something that sounded distinctly like _slut_. He handed the phone to Chuck.

"Hello?"

"Chuck!" Carina exclaimed. "It's been so long since I've heard your delicious voice."

Chuck sighed. "Carina, like Casey said, I'm married."

"Oh, Chuck, come on, that's never stopped me before. Really. I have never failed to get a married man that I set my eye on."

Chuck laughed. "I have a card up my sleeve that you may be unaware of, Carina," he replied. "The woman I'm married to happens to go by the name of Sarah Walker."

There was silence for a moment. "Now that's just playing dirty," Carina said, and Chuck could just imagine her pouting. "But… it would be an even greater accomplishment for me to take you away from Sarah."

"Carina, Sarah will kill you if you try," Chuck laughed.

"OH FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!" Tyler shouted, ripping the phone out of Chuck's hand and tossing it back to Casey. "Can we CONCENTRATE here, people?"

Casey put the phone back to his ear. "Was that grumpy old Sam Tyler I heard?" Carina asked.

"Yeah," Casey replied.

"He's been tied to more than one headboard," Carina said slyly.

Casey's stomach turned at that statement. "I really did not need to know that. Can we get on with business?"

"Fine, fun sucker," Carina replied.

"Okay. What's your location right now?"

"I'm in Cedar City, Utah. We're busting some stupid meth ring."

Casey's eyes lit up. "PERFECT," he said loudly. "I need you to get to Moab, go to Grand County Airport, and find a man by the name of Mitch Tucker. He's a Marine Gunnery Sergeant."

"Okay…"

"He has a Beech King Air at the airport," Casey continued. "The two of you need to fly to El Paso, and spring Senator Graham from Fulcrum custody at Fort Bliss."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. "I'm sorry," Carina finally said. "Did you just say that Fulcrum is holding Langston Graham at Fort Bliss?"

"Yep," Casey confirmed, nodding. "Think you can do it?"

"John, I can do ANYTHING," Carina replied. "But it's gonna cost you… and I don't want to see the four-leaf clover boxers again."

Casey sucked his breath in. "I don't know if I can pay that debt," he said. "I sort of have a lady friend."

Carina laughed. "Unbelievable. Well, I'll just collect one day. Either from you or Bartowski. Doesn't matter which. I'm pretty certain I can get either one of you."

And with that, she hung up. "She's gonna do it," Casey informed Chuck and Tyler. "She and Gunny Mitch Tucker are going to go to Texas, get Graham out. But Chuck…"

"Yeah?"

"She's gonna show up in L.A. to collect one day. If she can't get me, she's gonna go after you."

"She'll get dead," Chuck warned.

* * *

Rachel had eventually gotten over her embarrassment enough to introduce herself to Sarah and to Will. "Very nice to meet you, Agent Walker," Rachel had said. "I'm just sorry that your first impression of me was of my ass."

Sarah shrugged. "I wouldn't mind if I could get mine back in that kind of shape – NOT A WORD," she snapped at Bryce and Will.

Rachel laughed. "Well… I don't think we're going to be able to fly the Greyhound very far," she said, turning serious. "The starboard engine's transmission is grinding very badly, and we can only fly so far on just the port engine."

She turned and grabbed a book of charts. "However," she said, "I think I can get us as far as NAS Sigonella."

Will Williamson narrowed his eyes, and then they went wide as dinner plates. "No," he chuckled. "Oh, you ARE a naughty girl."

Rachel smiled. "Yes, yes, I am," she replied.

"Why, exactly?" Sarah asked. "Aside from the little demonstration earlier."

"There's a squadron of ES-3 Shadow aircraft based at Sigonella," Williamson said.

"And I think we should go steal one," Rachel finished. "If we fly up to England, land at some backwater airport to refuel us, and then fly at low speed and high altitude, we can get back to North America no problem."

Sarah looked at her, and then at Bryce. "Bryce," she said, a plan slowly putting itself together in her head, "did Commodore Saxon think he was going to be killed?"

"No," Bryce replied, "but he did think he was going to be arrested."

"Rachel," Sarah continued, turning her attention to Harrison, "am I right in thinking that an ES-3 is an electronic warfare aircraft and that it has the capability to land on an aircraft carrier?"

"Yeah," Rachel replied, clearly a little confused.

Williamson's eyes went wide again, and a huge grin crossed his face. "Sarah, are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

She smiled and nodded. "Oh yeah."

That's when Rachel caught on. "Oh, and you call ME a naughty girl."

Bryce looked confused. "I'm lost," he admitted. "What the hell is going on?"

Sarah smiled. "We're gonna go rescue us a US Navy flag officer."


	17. Friday, Part 4 & Saturday, Part 1

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 14_**

**CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Lt. Commander Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer  
Carina Miller - Mini Anden  
Gunnery Sgt. Mitch Tucker - Terry Crews  
Ensign Rodney Carter - Bret Harrison  
Sgt. Chuck Moen - Dule Hill

**12:15 AM, Belgrade Time**

**February 18****th****, 2012**

**Nikola Tesla International Airport, Belgrade, Serbia**

Almost two hours had been spent finalizing the plan of attack.

Fly the Greyhound into Sigonella, faking an in-flight emergency – although according to Commander Harrison, if the starboard engine seized, it wouldn't be too much effort to fake it. Steal an ES-3 Shadow at gunpoint. Fly it out to the USS _Dwight D. Eisenhower_ – it apparently had more than sufficient range.

Things got a little murky from there. The basic plan was, to start with, to use the Shadow's electronic warfare gear to shut down radio and radar onboard the _Eisenhower_. Then, they would get the Shadow refueled – again, probably at gunpoint. They would find Commodore Saxon, get him onboard the Shadow and off the _Eisenhower_.

The problem with that was that the Shadow only sat four, and there wasn't room to stick a fifth person. "No problem," Will Williamson said. "I'll stay, get off the ship another way."

Sarah shook her head adamantly. "No. That is not an option."

"I'm sorry, Agent Walker," Williamson replied, "but I am, first of all, a United States Marine, and secondly, an F/A-18 Hornet pilot, an aircraft of which there happen to be thirty-six onboard the _Eisenhower_. Worst comes to worst, I'll steal one and get the hell out."

There was some gear that Sarah had stowed onboard Williamson's Hornet that she absolutely had to get out before they left. So, they had waited another two hours after finishing their plan for the airport to get quiet for the night.

Sarah and Williamson snuck out of the Greyhound and ran across the taxiway to where they'd parked their Toyota Camry. As they got in, Rachel Harrison fired up the engines of the Greyhound, the starboard one emitting a thick, oily black smoke.

As soon as the Camry passed the Greyhound, Harrison pushed the throttles forward, moving it out of the spot she'd parked it in. It rolled slowly down the taxiway, letting the Camry open up some room.

Sarah was running with her headlights off as they approached the F-18F sitting, dark and cold, on a hardstand off the taxiway. The NSA agents who had surrounded it earlier had left, leaving only two agents to keep watch over the plane.

When the Camry was maybe one hundred fifty feet from the plane, Sarah turned on the lights and hit the highbeams, blinding both agents instantly. Williamson leaned out his window as the two NSA agents fired their guns blindly. Calmly and smoothly, he shot them both directly between the eyes.

As the two carcasses dropped to the pavement, Sarah brought the car to a halt. She and Williamson both jumped out, and he opened the tiny cargo hatch under the cockpit of the Hornet. She reached up and grabbed her messenger bag, and they turned around to watch the Greyhound approach.

Rachel Harrison throttled back and coasted, her speed being about fifteen miles per hour as she approached the CIA agent and the Marine pilot. They began running before the Greyhound reached them, and jumped onboard as they came even with the open port hatch.

"All clear!" Bryce Larkin shouted as he slammed the hatch shut. Immediately, Harrison pushed the throttles to full, and the Greyhound jumped down the runway as if it had been kicked by a mule.

"It's a good thing this thing was designed to take off from aircraft carriers," Rachel said through gritted teeth, "because this is gonna be close!"

The twin turboprops of the old Grumman aircraft howled as it gained speed. Finally, the front wheels of the Greyhound lifted off the ground, and it cleared the edge of Nikola Tesla International Airport with mere feet to spare.

"That was close," Rachel whispered. She turned and smiled at Bryce, and then turned to look at Sarah and Williamson. She opened her mouth –

"I swear to God, if you say one word about 'thank you for flying Air Harrison', I will slap you," Sarah growled.

* * *

**4:15 PM Mountain Standard Time (12:15 AM Belgrade Time)**

**February 17****th****, 2012**

**Grand County Airport, Moab, Utah**

_She looks lost_, Mitch Tucker thought to himself, as he watched the woman enter the main terminal building from the window of his office. She was quite a woman to look at, too – five foot ten inches of what looked like nothing but lean muscle and red hair.

He walked out the door of his office and headed down the hallway toward the door the woman would've entered. "Excuse me, ma'am, can I help you?" he asked, as he approached her.

She turned, and he felt like his skull had been pierced by the gaze of her green eyes. "I'm looking for Gunnery Sergeant Mitchell Tucker," she replied.

Mitch's jaw dropped. Was this his lucky day? Had one of his friends sent him a really hot stripper to break up the monotony of the day-to-day at Grand County Airport? "That's me," he said quietly.

"Gunny Tucker, I'm Agent Carina Miller, DEA," she informed him. Inwardly he groaned and cursed his luck. "I need your help."

* * *

**2:30 AM, Italy Time (6:30 PM MST)**

**February 18****th****, 2012**

**Naval Air Station Sigonella, Sicily, Italy**

"Mayday, mayday, this is Arrow-Two. We have lost starboard engine and we are losing altitude rapidly."

Ensign Rodney Carter was pulling his first watch as radar controller. _Engine loss? Altitude loss?_

"Show it to me," he commanded. An NCO switched a terminal to the main screen. There it was, Arrow-Two. Transponder identified it as a US Navy C-2 Greyhound.

"Uh, Arrow-Two, this is NAS Sigonella," he responded. "How far are you from us?"

There was a moment of silence, and then the voice of the female pilot came back on the radio. "Uh, we're maybe fifteen miles out," she replied. "We can see your lights from our position."

"Do you believe you can make the runway?"

"I can make it if I pour on every available ounce of power through the port engine and feather the starboard propeller," she replied. "But the starboard engine's already seized and I'm afraid the port engine's about to do the same."

* * *

**Onboard Arrow-Two**

The situation was looking entirely too grim. Rachel Harrison looked like she was about to throw up into her oxygen mask. Bryce was holding on to his seat so tightly that the dried out skin on one of his knuckles had cracked and was bleeding. Will Williamson had started praying.

And all Sarah could think about was Chuck and her kids. Facing the very real possibility of the Greyhound crashing into the Mediterranean Sea, she couldn't block them from her consciousness – they invaded her every thought.

The port engine began to howl as Rachel pushed its throttle to the stop. She reached over and flipped a switch to feather the starboard propeller, allowing it to pinwheel freely in the slipstream.

They were still dropping, but it felt like the rate of descent had slowed. "I think we're gonna make it!" Rachel called out with a victorious note in her voice.

Sarah allowed herself to smile slightly as the Greyhound dragged itself toward Sigonella. They weren't out of the woods yet, but it was looking better.

Well, it looked better very briefly. As they crossed the edge of the air base's property, the port engine seized. The Greyhound dropped like a rock.

"Oh God!" Harrison wailed, pulling back on the yoke with as much force as she could muster – but it wasn't enough. The Greyhound was dropping, hard.

Sarah closed her eyes and breathed deeply. As she did so, a dizzying array of images assaulted her mind –

Chuck standing behind the Nerd Herd desk, the first time she'd ever seen him –

Chuck staggering out of that helicopter in Long Beach –

Chuck smiling at her and telling her that if they were a real couple, they'd be forced to kiss –

Chuck in that ridiculous Shai-Hulud outfit –

Chuck when they rescued him from the facility in Moab –

Chuck when he got down on one knee and proposed –

Chuck's face when she announced she was pregnant –

Chuck holding newborn Lisa Erin –

Chuck holding her just before they embarked upon this insane mission –

And she breathed in again, noticing a bright light approaching. _This must be it_, she thought, allowing the light to get brighter and envelop everything –

"Sarah!"

Bryce's hand on her shoulder shook her out of her state of semi-consciousness. She opened her eyes to see a flashlight being shone in her face. "Yeah, that's not cool," she muttered, lifting a hand to shield her eyes.

"Sorry," Bryce said. "It's just, the plane stopped five minutes ago, and you haven't moved."

"What?"

Sarah looked out the window of the Greyhound. Sure enough, it had stopped. "Rachel landed it, both engines out," Bryce told her, a huge grin on his face.

"It was freakin' incredible!" Williamson added.

Sarah sighed. This mission needed to be over, soon, so she could go home and go back to her family.

* * *

**6:45 PM, Mountain Standard Time**

**February 17****th****, 2012**

**Somewhere over New Mexico**

"So, what's this all about?" Tucker finally asked as they flew across New Mexico.

Agent Miller had told him only that John Casey had called her, and told her that she needed to go to Moab, and find Gunny Mitch Tucker. From there, he would be her pilot in his Beech King Air. He was to head to El Paso, and that was all she was telling him at the moment.

When he had objected, wanting to know more, she had grabbed him by the back of the neck, and kissed him like he hadn't been kissed since… well, since that one girl in Thailand, he thought. It seemed to have special powers though, because he immediately complied with everything she asked.

"There's a plot against the President, Mr. Tucker," Carina replied. "A group of people – domestic terrorists, if you will – want to unseat the President, and put their own person in his place. This group is called Fulcrum."

"Yeah, and their plot's called ECOMCON," Tucker shot back. "I know that much. Now, can you tell me what exactly's going on?"

Carina sighed. "Senator Langston Graham, from North Carolina, is the former director of the CIA. He went to Fort Bliss, in El Paso, to do a so-called Congressional inspection of the ECOMCON command facility. Unfortunately, Fulcrum figured his plan out, and captured him. So you and I are going to go get him out."

Tucker's mind just about exploded with that statement. "EXCUSE ME?" he bellowed. "A DEA agent and a Marine Reservist taking on an entire goddamn US Army fort? Have you totally lost it?"

"No, of course not," Carina said. "We know exactly which building Senator Graham is in. We'll land on the road right next to that building. Then we go in. You appeal to the enlisted men with your intimidating, drill sergeant ways, telling them that they have the choice of either disobeying their superior officer or committing treason. I'm pretty sure they'll go with the choice of disobeying their superior officers."

Tucker stared at her for a moment, and then shook his head. "Springing a man from terrorist custody. Blowing up a drug warehouse. Stealing an F/A-18. Rescuing a man from Fort Bliss."

He looked Carina in the eyes. "Are ALL intelligence agents batshit crazy?"

She smiled and laughed. "Oh, no," she said. "Just the good ones."

* * *

**2:57 AM, Italy Time (6:57 PM MST)**

**February 18****th****, 2012**

**NAS Sigonella**

Ensign Carter had ridden out to where the Greyhound had rolled to a stop. He wanted to make sure all the passengers were okay.

And they seemed to be. As his Saab pulled up to the aircraft, the emergency vehicles began to roll off, leaving just the four occupants of the Greyhound, two of them in uniform – _the pilots_, Carter assumed – and two of them in civilian clothing.

As he got out of the Saab, though, all four pulled guns on him. His eyes widened and it was all he could do to not lose control of his bladder.

"You have ES-3 Shadows here, correct?" the woman in uniform asked, a hard edge to her voice. Carter recognized her voice as that of the woman who had called in the mayday.

"Uh… yeah?"

"Alright, get back in the car and drive us to one," the other woman told him. "We need one."

Too scared to say anything else, he got in the car. The blonde woman in civilian clothing got in the Saab, her gun pointed at his head. The other three got in the back seat.

Carter put the car in gear and headed off toward the hangar where the Lockheed electronic warfare aircraft were kept. About halfway there, he finally got up the nerve to say something.

"Why are you doing this?"

"For the good of the United States," the blonde woman replied. "There's a plot to take down the President, and we're trying to stop it."

He took his foot of the gas, and turned to look at her, incredulous. "Jesus, why didn't you just say so?"

Carter reached down and picked up his radio. "Ensign Carter to squadron three."

"This is Sergeant Moen."

"I need an Echo-3 prepped, like yesterday. Don't log it, don't put it on the books, just get it ready to go."

"Uh… Rod? What's going on?"

"Can't say, Chuck. It's apparently a matter of national security."

The blonde woman looked at Carter. "Did you just call him Chuck?"

"Yeah, Tech Sergeant Chuck Moen," he replied. "One of the lead maintenance guys for the electronic warfare squadron."

She smiled and laughed softly. "That's my husband's name," she said quietly. "It's almost like it's good luck."

When the young Navy ensign's Saab reached the squadron three hangar, the doors had been opened, and the lights turn on. A black-painted ES-3 had been rolled halfway out of the hangar, and it was being fueled.

"Thank you, Ensign," the blonde woman said. "Now, I need you and Sergeant Moen to leave and forget we were ever here. We'll finish pre-flighting the aircraft."

Moen looked at Carter and shrugged. "We go," Carter told him.

* * *

Sarah watched as the Saab drove away from the hangar. She couldn't believe their luck so far. Carter had unquestioningly accepted her brief explanation of what was going on, and then for Sergeant Moen's name to be Chuck?

She smiled. It was things like this that made her think that maybe there was a God after all.

"Let's go!" Harrison shouted five minutes later.

Sarah left her sentry post at the door of the hangar, running for the stairs up to the ES-3's hatch as the airliner-like turbofan engines spooled up. As she stepped into the hatch, she pushed the stairs away with her foot, watching them roll to the wall of the hangar.

Rachel Harrison and Will Williamson taxied the ES-3 Shadow out onto the runway, and without waiting for clearance or even acknowledgment of their presence, brought the throttles up. The little aircraft leapt down the runway, speed building rapidly.

As it reached 145 miles per hour, the Shadow left the runway. True to its name, the black electronic warfare aircraft disappeared into the night sky, the sound of its jets the only clue it had ever been there.


	18. Interlude, Airborne

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Interlude 3_**

** CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Lt. Commander Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer

**3:15 AM, Italy Time**

**February 18****th****, 2012**

**Departing NAS Sigonella**

Sarah Walker was about to lean her seat back as far as it would go and get some sleep, but there were a couple of things she wanted to make sure of first.

"How long are we looking at to the _Eisenhower_?" she asked Rachel Harrison and Will Williamson, flying the Lockheed ES-3 Shadow.

"Provided they're still steaming north of Diego Garcia – and according to GPS, it looks like they are; we'll get more precise information the closer we get – then we're looking at about an eight hour flight at cruise speed," Rachel replied. "If they aren't there, then we'll have to divert to Diego Garcia, because we'll only have about an hour's worth of fuel left at that point."

Sarah nodded. "And you're sure that the e-war equipment will shut down the _Eisenhower_?"

Will Williamson fielded that question. "Sarah," he replied, "the equipment onboard this little Hoover could shut down Los Angeles."

Sarah looked over at Bryce to see if he knew what Williamson meant by Hoover – but the Fulcrum-hunting CIA agent was asleep. "Uh, Hoover?" she asked.

"The original platform, the S-3 Viking anti-sub aircraft, was nicknamed the Hoover, because apparently they sound like vacuum cleaners," Harrison replied.

Sarah raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I always thought intelligence agents were weird, but you pilots… you're just a special breed."

"Oh yes," Williamson replied, doing his best to imitate an Igor voice. "Oh yes, yes we are."

Sarah shook her head. "Crazy people. Good night."


	19. Friday, Part 5 & Saturday, Part 2

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 15_**

** CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Gunnery Sgt. Mitch Tucker - Terry Crews  
Carina Miller - Mini Anden  
Sen. Langston Graham - Tony Todd  
Colonel Ron Lesley - Michael O'Neill  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer  
Lt. Commander Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
Commander Byrnes - Kevin Alejandro  
Captain Jack Drexler - Jamie McShane  
Commodore Forrest Saxon - Gabriel Byrne

**8:30 PM, Mountain Standard Time**

**February 17****th****, 2012**

**El Paso, Texas**

Mitch Tucker had been circling El Paso for about half an hour now in his Beech King Air. Agent Carina Miller of the Drug Enforcement Administration had been using that time to do aerial reconnaissance of Fort Bliss, twenty-seven thousand feet below.

"Alright," she said, comparing the photos she had been taking with her digital camera to the printout she had of Fort Bliss. "This appears to be the ECOMCON building, and according to the fix they have on Senator Graham's dermal implant, he's in there."

"Wait, his do who with the what now?" Tucker asked. "Dermal implant?"

"He had it put in when he was the DCI," Carina replied. "It's a computer chip in the deeper layers of skin. It's undetectable by anything the Army has, and it's powerful enough to be detected from behind the strongest communications jammers that the United States has."

"Interesting," mused Tucker. "Okay, continue."

"There's a road approximately one and a half miles long that runs right past the building. There's no gates on it, no blocks – you should be able to land and takeoff on that road, no problem. We land, we invade, we extract Senator Graham, and we get the hell out."

"You make it sound so simple," Tucker replied with a laugh. "What about aerial defenses?"

"We fly out about twenty miles, take it down in the dirt, and pop up right before we hit the fort's boundary," Carina said. "Simple as that."

"Yeah, if you have a death wish," Tucker grumbled. However, he turned away from Fort Bliss, putting it on his six and accelerating.

In less than ten minutes, the King Air had reached a point about twenty-five miles from Fort Bliss. "Okay, you need to turn to a heading of 154 to line up with the road," Carina told him.

"Turn-ING…" Carina looked up and rolled her eyes at Tucker's deplorable Fozzie Bear impression.

The King Air lazily rolled to the right, coming slowly around to a heading of one hundred fifty-four degrees. Once he had his heading set, Tucker took the Beech aircraft earthward.

His rate of descent was fairly sharp at first, but as he got closer to the ground, he leveled out, until he came to a steady altitude of two hundred feet. "I may have to make some sharp maneuvers depending on terrain," he warned Carina. "I hope you don't have airsickness issues."

"Not generally," she replied. "As long as I can see out the window."

Tucker continued at about two hundred feet until he was three miles out from Fort Bliss, and then he dropped the altitude to fifty feet. "Dirt time."

At two miles out, the radio crackled to life. "Unidentified aircraft, you have entered restricted US Army airspace. Reverse course immediately or you will be considered a threat."

"Bring it on," Tucker muttered to himself. He pushed the King Air's throttle to the limits. The twin turboprops growled and whined as it pushed the aircraft to its maximum speed.

The aircraft dashed over the boundary of Fort Bliss at three hundred fifty miles per hour. Anti-aircraft guns tracked it and shot off a few tracers, but quickly stopped as the Beech airplane flew over the fort.

Tucker could see the dimly lit end of the road directly ahead. He chopped the King Air's speed and brought the aircraft down into ground effect, lowering and locking the landing gear as he did so. As soon as he crossed over the end of the road, he cut the throttles to idle, letting the Beechcraft bounce to the paved surface and decelerate.

He let the airplane roll out for about a mile, until he came up on the ECOMCON building. Standing on the brakes, he brought the King Air to a stop directly outside the building, using the starboard turboprop to turn the aircraft back around.

As Carina opened the hatch, a group of four soldiers came dashing up to the aircraft. "Who the hell are you?" one of them shouted.

Carina's response was to extend her hand, holding a Taser, and put an electronic dart into each of the four men. They all collapsed to the pavement, collapsing. Carina jumped out of the airplane, and started running toward the building, Mitch Tucker hot on her heels.

The front door had a thumbprint scanner on it. Carina didn't have the time for that, so she pulled out her gun and shot the front door. The glass panel shattered.

"No bulletproof glass… lazy, lazy," she muttered as she dashed through the door.

The Army couldn't have made things any easier on her. There were big signs on the wall pointing to the "ECOMCON COMMAND CENTER." Carina smiled and shook her head, running down the hall, Taser at the ready.

By the time she and Mitch Tucker reached the command center, four more soldiers lay convulsing on the floor behind them. The command center, again, had a thumbprint entry system – and as Carina quickly found out, the Army had chosen once again to not invest in bulletproof glass for the facility.

As Carina stepped through the door into the command center, Taser held high, a dozen soldiers swung M-16s in her direction. But she ignored them all. "Good evening, Senator Graham!" she called across the room to Langston Graham, handcuffed to a chair.

Graham looked at her, and rolled his eyes. "Of all the agents to send to get me out," he said. "You gonna handcuff me to a bed next?"

Carina smiled and pouted in a rather seductive – and in Tucker's opinion, completely inappropriate to the moment – fashion. "Only if you want me to."

Tucker had had enough. He stepped into the room as well – and the guns started to turn toward him, but the soldiers holding them wavered a bit upon seeing this 6'6" black man, wearing a battle dress uniform, with the stripes of a Marine Corps gunnery sergeant on his sleeves. He looked around the room, took stock of the situation, and then boomed, "GOOD EVENING, SOLDIERS!"

For every non-commissioned officer in the room – from the privates with the guns to the master sergeant manning the radios, the reaction was instinctive and automatic. They all snapped to attention, and in unison, shouted back, "GOOD EVENING, DRILL SERGEANT!"

Tucker smiled. "Stand down, soldiers!"

Colonel Ron Lesley jumped out of the command chair in the center of the room. "I don't think so!" he shouted. "Weapons up, soldiers!"

"Listen to me!" Tucker bellowed. "You have a choice here! If you disobey the colonel, you might get in trouble. You might be disciplined for disobeying a senior officer. However, if you OBEY his orders, you will all be subject to charges of treason and conspiracy against the President of the United States!"

Tucker was kind of bullshitting that last part. He didn't know for sure that they would be subject to those charges even if the mission was successful. However, hearing those words come from the mouth of a man who was clearly a drill sergeant was enough for every single one of them – most of them lowered their weapons, but two actually turned and aimed their M-16s at Colonel Lesley.

"Alright!" Carina exclaimed, a note of happiness in her voice. "Now that we've got that settled, I need somebody to uncuff Senator Graham, please?"

A young corporal, standing next to Graham, immediately reached into his pocket and retrieved a key. Bending down, he unlocked Graham's handcuffs. "My apologies, sir," he said to the former CIA director as he rose from his chair.

"Don't worry about it," Graham replied. "You were just doing your job."

He crossed the command center to the two standing by the door. "Agent Miller," he said. "And you are…"

"Gunnery Sergeant Mitchell Tucker, United States Marine Corps Reserve, sir!" Tucker responded.

"Langston Graham, Senator from North Carolina. May I recommend we get the hell out of here?"

"With pleasure, sir!"

* * *

**11:14 PM, Eastern Standard Time (9:14 PM MST)  
**

**CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia**

The secure telephone unit on Director Tyler's desk rang, rousing Chuck from his half-sleeping state. He looked around the room dazedly. Director Tyler was out somewhere in the building, and John Casey was sleeping like the dead.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he took a breath. Picking up the phone, he said, "Uh, Bartowski, secure?"

"Well, hello, hot stuff," he heard from the other end.

Chuck sighed. "Hello, Carina. Are you secure?"

"That's a negative," she replied. "Just wanted to let you know, mission accomplished. And I will be coming by to collect at some point. I guarantee it."

"Carina… don't start."

"You'll never know what hit you," she replied with an evil laugh. And then she hung up the phone.

Chuck sighed, replacing the handset of the STU-8 in its cradle. He knew Carina wasn't joking. He knew there was a very real possibility that in the near future, the DEA agent would show up and try to seduce him. And when that happened, there were going to be problems.

Reaching into his pocket, Chuck withdrew his cell phone. He had no idea where Sarah was, had no idea when she would get the message, but he needed to let her know that Senator Graham was safe and secure.

He started to compose a text message, but then stopped. To the best of his knowledge, Sarah didn't know that he had even been captured.

Chuck closed his eyes, then started writing on a piece of paper. He needed to make the message as brief as possible.

Finally, he had it. "SenG cpt b/Flc Ft Bliss. Resc b/Carina & Moab USMC. Miss u 5683."

* * *

**1:30 PM, British Indian Ocean Territories Time (3:30 AM, EST)**

**February 18****th****, 2012**

**Near Diego Garcia, BIOT**

Sarah was roused from her fitful sleep by the feeling of a vibration in her pocket. Drowsily looking around, she saw that Bryce was still sleeping. Rachel and Will were flying the Shadow, and they both looked exhausted.

"You guys doing okay?" she asked sleepily as she reached in her pocket to retrieve her cell phone.

"Yeah, we're good," Will replied. "It'd be nice to land soon, but we're good for the moment."

Sarah withdrew her cell phone. She had one bar of service – _Must be getting a bounce off a tower on Diego Garcia_, she thought.

The phone told her she had one new text message. She pressed the read button.

"SenG cpt b/Flc Ft Bliss. Resc b/Carina & Moab USMC. Miss u 5683," it said.

She translated that in her head. "SenG cpt b/Flc Ft Bliss" meant that Senator Graham had been captured by Fulcrum when he had gone to do his site inspection. That was not good. "Resc b/Carina & Moab USMC" meant that Carina Miller and Mitch Tucker had gone in to retrieve Graham and had somehow been successful. That was almost unbelievable.

And then there was "Miss u 5683." The "5683" was a shorthand that she and Chuck used in text messages for "I love you," since 5683 spelled out "love" on the telephone keypad.

She smiled at that, and hit the reply button. The one bar of service kept flickering, so Sarah quickly typed out "5683 2" – "I love you too" – and hit the send button.

"Message sent," the phone told her, just before the bar of service was lost.

Sarah slipped her phone back into her pocket and closed her eyes. She quickly fell back asleep.

Half an hour later, she was reawakened by Will Williamson's hand shaking her knee. "Hey," he said as she opened her eyes. "It's go time. I need you and Larkin to start firing up the computers and getting ready to shut down the _Eisenhower_."

"Right," she said, her voice still heavy with sleep. "Bryce…"

Bryce didn't stir. "Hey, Bryce," she said, reaching over and shaking his shoulder.

"Don't wanna," he grumbled, not even really coming to a conscious state.

"Bryce!" She reached over and gently smacked the back of his head. His eyes popped open, and his hand reflexively reached out and grabbed Sarah's wrist.

"Good morning to you, too," she said sarcastically. "Can I have my wrist back?"

"Sorry," Bryce said insincerely, letting go of her wrist. "Guess I'm not used to being woken up via smack to the head."

"Well, you weren't waking up any other way," Sarah replied. "We need to get to work. Start firing up those computers, would you?"

Ten minutes later, the computers were finally ready to do their thing. "Okay," Rachel Harrison instructed them from the pilot's seat. "Both of your sets of computers should have icons marked 'Full-spectrum jam'. Double click on that to start the program."

Bryce and Sarah both started the program. "It's asking me to turn on my transmitters," Sarah reported.

"Mine too," Bryce added.

"We don't want to do that yet," Rachel replied. "It would tell the _Eisenhower_ where we were before we're close enough. We need to wait about another fifteen minutes, and then we'll be close enough that the full-spectrum jamming will shut down their radar and track-on-jam systems as well."

"Hey, what's this?" Bryce asked, holding up a 1/8th inch stereo cord.

"That's for connecting an audio source," Will Williamson said. "We use that when we're MIJI'ing the enemy – in other words, we broadcast false audio signals over the full spectrum. It's especially useful if we're doing psychological warfare sorts of things."

"Interesting," Bryce mused, and then fell silent.

The next fifteen minutes seemed to take forever. Sarah felt like she was sitting on pins and needles waiting for something to happen. Finally, Rachel detected a radar sweep from the _Eisenhower_ and said, "Okay, fire 'em up!"

Bryce and Sarah both flipped the switches to activate their transmitters, and clicked "OK" on the computer screens to begin transmitting. Immediately, the radios started emitting an unfortunate squealing noise. Will reached out and flicked a switch to squelch the sound.

"We should be alright between here and the carrier," Rachel said. "They might send up fighters to check us out, but they won't fire on an American aircraft without damn good reason."

And sure enough, five minutes later, two F/A-18 Hornets joined up on the Shadow, one on either side of it. Immediately, Rachel and Will reached to their shoulders, pulled off Velcroed-on American flag patches, and held them against the windows.

The two Hornets held formation for a moment, then both wagged their wings and broke off. "Alright, we seem to be in the clear for the moment," Rachel said. "Let's do this thing."

The carrier was just a speck at that moment, but as Rachel descended and approached, it grew larger and larger. "I've got the ball," she muttered to nobody in particular, with the radios offline.

Will pulled a lever to deploy the tailhook, and the ES-3 continued to sink toward the deck of the _Eisenhower_. Sarah watched in fascination as the Nimitz-class carrier grew in size. She watched as the edge of the deck passed under the Shadow –

And then there was a bone-jarring jolt as the Shadow hit the deck. Rachel shoved the throttles to full, but pulled them back as soon as she felt the deck cable engage and yank the ES-3 to a stop.

"That felt like a three-wire," Williamson said, turning to Rachel.

"Be my twenty-seventh in a row if it was," she replied with a rather proud grin.

"Aw, yeah, gimme some SKIN!" Williamson said, holding his hand up in the air. Rachel's grin grew even bigger as she high-fived her fellow pilot.

A group of deck handlers, dressed in brightly colored uniforms, came running up to the aircraft. One of them yanked open the hatch. "Who the hell are you peo – RACH?"

Harrison had turned around to face him. "Well, howdy there, Commander Byrnes," she greeted the commander of VFA-83 with a smile.

"What the hell is going on, Rachel?" he asked. "You land in an ES-3 that's jamming the full spectrum, out of nowhere. Captain Drexler declared you AWOL three days ago."

"I really don't have time to explain," Harrison replied. "All I can tell you is that I need you to do a hot refuel and load me on cat 2, and while we're doing that, these three folks are going to go spring Commodore Saxon from the brig."

Commander Byrnes looked at Lieutenant Commander Harrison as if she'd gone straight around the bend. "You want the deck crew to do an engines-on refuel, and you want me to let three people I've never seen before remove Commodore Saxon from custody? Are you kidding?"

"No," Sarah said, removing her NCA identification card from her pocket. "National Command Authority. You need to do whatever we tell you."

Byrnes' eyebrows went up. "Oookay," he said slowly. "I saw the card, I can say I was just following orders."

"Thank you," Sarah said.

* * *

**That same time**

**Combat Information Center**

**USS **_**Dwight D. Eisenhower**_

"Alright, so we've got the source of the jamming sitting ON DECK?" Captain Drexler exploded in amazement. "Shut it down!"

"Can't, sir," one of the officers replied. "The transmitters that Ling Temco Vought built for that thing are way too powerful for us to simply counteract. I need to actually hack into their computer system and shut down the software."

"Can you do that?"

"Absolutely, sir. I just piggyback a carrier wave onto their jamming signal. That should get me into the computer, and then I just take the damn thing down."

"Do it!"

* * *

Sarah, Bryce, and Will were being led through the bowels of the _Eisenhower_ by two uniformed Marines. Sarah's NCA identification card had quieted any doubts the Marines had.

One of the Marines entered in an access code, and a door opened, revealing a fairly nicely-appointed set of quarters – albeit one that doubled as a jail cell. Forrest Saxon looked up from his bunk.

"Well, Agent Larkin, how nice to see you again," he said upon seeing Bryce's face. "Have you come to rescue me?"

"We have indeed, sir," Larkin replied. "We need to go, right now."

"Just to warn you," Saxon said, "it would seem that Captain Jack Drexler, the commander of the carrier air wing, is a member of Fulcrum. He's the one who tossed me in here and relieved me of duty."

Sarah stiffened. "Wait, you mean the acting commander of CTF-77 is Fulcrum?"

Saxon nodded. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"No, it means we're in deep shit," Sarah responded.

"Well, then we should get moving," Saxon said. "What's your name, young lady?"

"Sarah Walker Bartowski, Central Intelligence Agency," Sarah responded. "And this is Captain Will Williamson, United States Marine Corps."

"F/A-18 pilot, sir," Williamson added, saluting Saxon as he stepped out of the quarters.

Saxon tossed off a salute back. "Well, then, shall we?"

Five minutes later, the four reached the flight deck. The Shadow's engines were still running, and it had been moved to the angled catapult. "This is where we part ways," Williamson said to Sarah.

"Be careful, Will," she urged him.

He grinned. "Sarah, I'm a gay Marine, and I've been okay for twelve years so far. I don't think an aircraft carrier's going to give me pause."

She nodded, and then jogged off to catch up to Saxon and Bryce.

When they climbed into the Shadow, Saxon immediately took the co-pilot's seat. "Somehow, I'm not at all surprised to see you here, Harrison," he said to Rachel by way of greeting.

"Good to see you, too, sir," she replied.

Sarah and Bryce were getting buckled in when their computers went down. "Uh-oh," Bryce uttered.

"What?" asked Rachel.

"We just lost computers."

"Oh God," Rachel said. "That's a big problem. The transmitters are still running, but with nothing going out, we can't actually jam anything."

She looked outside at the catapult operator and whirled her finger in a panicked fashion. The operator nodded and backed up quickly. "Hang on!" Rachel shouted.

A moment later, the steam catapult activated, flinging the ES-3 Shadow off the deck of the _Eisenhower_. Rachel shoved the throttles to full, pushing the Shadow into the sky as it dipped slightly below the flight deck.

"Everybody and their mother knows exactly where we are," Rachel told the two in back, keeping her eyes on the sky as the Shadow clawed for altitude. "We need to get those computers back online right now."

"I tried," Bryce said despondently. "I got a picture of a jolly roger with a caption that said, 'Pirates never succeed!'"

Saxon shook his head. "Drexler hacked your computer system," he told them. "You have nothing to transmit."

Sarah's eyes widened. "Wait a second," she said. "That's not true! We've still got the audio input – that's strictly an analog thing!"

She dug around in her messenger bag and came up with her iPod – an iPod that Chuck had loaded with music to further "educate" her. "Bryce, plug it in and hit play!"

Bryce didn't ask questions, he just did what Sarah ordered. A moment later, a string and brass sequence started pouring out of the radio – but it was no orchestral song.

_I'm gonna make you bend and break… say a prayer but let the good times roll, in case God doesn't show._

Bryce looked over at Sarah, an amused look on his face. "Since when does 'Ms. Rolling Stones are Gods of Music' like Fall Out Boy?" he asked.

"Don't blame me, blame Chuck. He's the one who put it on there."

* * *

**USS **_**Dwight D. Eisenhower**_

**Combat Information Center**

"They're gone, but we shut down their computers, sir!"

"Fantastic," Drexler said. "Alright, launch the alert birds."

Even as he spoke, an F/A-18 shot off the forward catapult, blasting into the sky. "That was quick," he mused.

But the lack of jamming was short-lived. Without warning, the bridge speakers began blaring a punk rock beat.

_And I want these words to make things right, but it's the wrongs that make the words come to life._

The phone in CIC rang over the din of the song. Drexler picked it up. "Drexler… what do you mean, that wasn't one of our pilots in the Hornet?" His face grew red with anger. "WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?"

_If that's the worst you got, better put your fingers back to the keys!_

"GET ONE OF THE TOMCATS READY!" Drexler roared, storming out of the CIC.

* * *

**Onboard the Shadow**

Although "Thnks fr th Mmrs" was effectively blocking out any radio communication, it was not stopping radar signals. So, when Rachel saw one blip followed shortly thereafter by another take off from the _Eisenhower_, she started feeling somewhat of a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach.

"We're gonna have company!"

_One night, and one more time, thanks for the memories, even though they weren't so great – he tastes like you, only sweeter!_

Sarah just sat in her seat, staring at the blank computer screen in front of her. The Shadow was not meant to maneuver – it was built almost like a miniature airliner, and there was no way it could take on supersonic fighters.

She pulled out her phone and pulled up the text message from Chuck. If she was going to die, then she was going to do it with a message from her husband telling her that he loved her in front of her.

_One night, yeah, and one more time, thanks for the memories, thanks for the memories – he, he tastes like you, only sweeter!_

* * *

**F-14 "Dachshund-One"**

Drexler had been shot off the catapult of the _Eisenhower_ without a weapons systems officer. However, he'd been flying F-14s for his entire career, and could easily pilot one solo – could probably even do it blindfolded.

Radio was down because of that damnable song streaming from the pirate ES-3, but he was still receiving radar feed over the JTIDS link with the E-2C Hawkeye that was airborne over CTF-77. Getting an exact fix on the Shadow, he punched the afterburners and roared in.

_Been lookin' forward to the future, when my eyesight is going bad, and this crystal ball…_

* * *

**Onboard the ES-3**

"We've got a Tomcat coming in FAST!" Rachel called out. "Everybody hold on!"

And with that warning, she jerked the Shadow hard to the left, pulling it around TOWARD the direction the Tomcat was coming from. The pilot of the Tomcat didn't have enough time to adjust, but he still fired his guns as he came in.

No shells hit the Shadow, but Commodore Saxon could still see the stream of tracers going past the Shadow within fifty feet as they maneuvered. "That was a little too close," he informed them as the big fighter boomed past behind them.

_It's always cloudy except for when you look into the past, one night stand – ONE NIGHT STAND!_

* * *

**Dachshund-One**

Drexler cursed as he pulled the F-14 back around. He suspected that Rachel Harrison was probably flying the Shadow – she was the only pilot he could think of who would've been able to just land a pirated aircraft onboard his ship and then convince the deck staff to get it turned around and ready to fly again.

As he brought the Tomcat back around for another pass, he warmed up the AIM-9X Sidewinders hanging from the wings. There hadn't been time to get any Phoenix missiles loaded, otherwise he would've just dropped one of those on the Shadow to begin with and been done with it.

_One night, and one more time, thanks for the memories, even though they weren't so great – he tastes like you, only sweeter._

* * *

**ES-3**

"Shit, shit, shit!" Rachel cried out when the missile detector picked up the computers on board the Sidewinder missiles coming online. "He's getting ready for a missile pass!"

"I'll just assume that's bad," Bryce said dryly.

_One night, yeah, and one more time, thanks for the memories, thanks for the memories – he, he tastes like you, only sweeter!_

* * *

**Dachshund-One**

Drexler pulled the Tomcat around to bring it nose-to-nose with the fleeing ES-3. The newest Sidewinders had a nose-on firing ability, and he wanted to see Commodore Saxon and Commander Harrison go down in a blaze of fire.

Sixty miles between the two aircraft rapidly spiraled down. Drexler grinned as he prepared to fire – and then noticed a radar blip.

"What the hell?"

_They say I only think in form of crunching numbers, in hotel rooms, collecting Page Six lovers…_

* * *

**ES-3**

Rachel Harrison desperately pushed the Shadow into a shallow dive, pulling it around to the left, but the much faster, much more maneuverable F-14 was more than a match for the ES-3.

She breathed deeply. "Folks, we may not be around much longer," she said. "I'd like to say, though, it's been an honor serving with you, Agent Walker, and Bryce, I wish we could've had something more. I really do."

Commodore Saxon looked over at her. "Commander Harrison, you've been a dedicated member of CVW-7, and I'd like to thank you –"

He was interrupted by the sonic boom of an aircraft passing directly over them. As they watched in astonishment, an F/A-18 Hornet pulled out in front of them, and fired an AIM-120 AMRAAM missile at the approaching F-14.

_Get me out of my mind, get you out of those clothes… I'm a liner away from getting you into the mood…_

* * *

**F/A-18 "Pirate-One"**

"Dun-du-du-dun-dun, dun-du-du-dun-dun, dun-du-du-dun-dun, dun-du-du-duh!" Will Williamson sang Wagner's _Die Walküre_into his oxygen mask as he came screaming in, flying to the rescue.

"FOX ONE!" he shouted as he loosed the AIM-120 missile, even though nobody would hear him say it. It was just habit.

He watched, a maniacal grin growing on his face as the AMRAAM bore in on the F-14 piloted by Jack Drexler. Drexler attempted to jink away from the incoming missile, forgetting about firing his own, but it was to no avail. The AMRAAM struck the F-14 directly between its stabilizers, blowing out both engines.

The fuel tanks ignited, and the Tomcat disintegrated, a gigantic fireball exploding and little pieces of aircraft shooting out and falling to the ocean.

_One night, and one more time, thanks for the memories, even though they weren't so great – he tastes like you only sweeter._

* * *

**ES-3**

The four onboard the Shadow watched in incredulity as the F-14 Tomcat disintegrated in front of them, and the F/A-18 that had blown it out of the sky flew a victory loop.

"That's gotta be Will," Sarah said, reaching over to the transmitter and shutting it off.

"HOWDY HO!" they heard through their headsets almost immediately.

Sarah grinned. "Nice timing, Will!" Rachel called into the microphone.

"Thank you kindly!" the Marine Corps pilot called back. "Let's get the hell out of here, shall we?"

"You got enough gas for Guam?" Rachel asked.

"Hell yeah!" Williamson replied. "I'll see you on Guam!"

_One more night, and one more time, thanks for the memories, thanks for the memories – he, he tastes like you only sweeter!_


	20. Saturday, Part 3

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 16_**

** CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Brigadier Gen. Skip Waterson - Christopher Meloni  
Commodore Forrest Saxon - Gabriel Byrne  
Lt. Commander Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
Carina Miller - Mini Anden  
Gunnery Sgt. Mitch Tucker - Terry Crews  
Sen. Langston Graham - Tony Todd  
Dr. Samuel Tyler, DCI - John Simm  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
**  
3:00 AM, Chamorro Standard Time (12:00 Noon, Eastern Standard Time)**

**February 19****th****, 2012 (February 18****th****, EST)**

**Andersen Air Force Base, Guam**

Brigadier General Skip Waterson, commander of Andersen Air Force Base, looked exhausted. And he had good reason to be.

Four hours beforehand, he had been roused from bed by a phone call that purported to be from Commodore Forrest Saxon, commander of CTF-77. Waterson had verified that it really was Saxon by asking him about a rather embarrassing incident from when they were both in Iraq nine years before.

Saxon had asked Waterson to send them a KC-10 to refuel a ES-3 and an F/A-18 that were flying from the USS _Dwight D. Eisenhower_ to Guam. He had added that he had an individual onboard with a National Command Authority identification card.

Waterson had thought he was going crazy at that point, but he had deployed the KC-10. It had landed four hours later, with the Hornet and the Shadow behind it.

Four individuals disembarked from the two aircraft – Saxon, a US Navy pilot whose nametag said Harrison, and two civilians came off the Shadow, and a US Marine Corps pilot whose nametag said Williamson came out of the Hornet. "You mind explaining what the HELL is going on here, Forr?" Waterson asked.

"We're on the –"

Saxon was cut off by the civilian woman. Waterson was sure that ordinarily she was extraordinarily good looking, but right at the moment, she looked exhausted and on the ragged edge of sanity. Her face was pale, with dark bags under her eyes. Her hair was in desperate need of a shower, and her eyes were bloodshot and a little crazy looking.

"Sarah Walker Bartowski, Central Intelligence Agency," she interrupted, holding up her NCA identification card. "We need to get to Washington, DC, and we need to get there FAST."

"I need to know why first," General Waterson replied.

"Don't have time," Agent Bartowski replied.

Waterson stood his ground. "If you're going to appropriate one of my aircraft to fly halfway around the world, you are damn well going to explain yourself first."

Sarah sighed. This was getting to be a pain. "Alright, fine. You know the ECOMCON exercise scheduled for Monday? It's a sham."

"It's a WHAT?"

"It's a sham. It's a cover for a domestic terror organization known as Fulcrum to remove the President from office, and replace him with the individual of their choice, at this point probably General Melvin Powers."

Waterson felt like he had been punched in the stomach. _General Powers? HIS commanding general?_

"Prove it," he said, not believing her.

Sarah blew out her breath, frustrated. "I don't have TIME," she snapped – and that's when Saxon interrupted her.

"I was part of it, Skip," he admitted, looking down at the ground. "I was part of it, but I got out, because I can't condone removing the President, especially not this one."

Waterson couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You, Forr? You, of all people? How could you get involved with something like that?"

"I don't know, Skip," he replied. "It just seemed like the right thing in 1999. You know, when Kosovo was starting to go down the tubes, and Bill Clinton was getting bomb-happy?"

Waterson shook his head in amazement. "So, I presume the reason y'all need to get to Washington is to keep the President in his Constitutionally appointed office?"

"That would be correct," Sarah said. "So, we need to get there as fast as possible."

Skip Waterson closed his eyes for a moment. "Fine," he said. "I've got a B-1 that has to rotate out of service anyway – the bomb bay doors have malfunctioned, and apparently Boeing has to replace the entire system. It's flying home tomorrow, so what the hell, I'll send it to Langley Air Force Base, with all of you onboard."

"Thank you," Sarah replied. "We can fly it – we've got our own pilots. Three of them, in fact."

"Not a chance," Waterson snapped. "Your pilots look like death warmed over. I'll send two of my pilots."

And so, at 3:00 in the morning, a B-1B Lancer supersonic bomber rolled down the runway of Andersen Air Force Base, taking off into the night sky and disappearing, its charcoal gray paint blending in with the black sky.

The only evidence it had been there was the sonic boom that rolled across Guam as the bomber broke the Mach.

* * *

**4:30 PM, Eastern Standard Time**

**February 18****th****, 2012**

**Fort Meade, Maryland**

General Diane Beckman, the director of the National Security Agency, and the true power behind Fulcrum, thought she was going crazy. Thirty hours earlier, she thought that she had everybody in hand. Bartowski and Casey were going to be conveniently taken out at the farm in Bumpass, Walker would be taken care of in Belgrade, and Art Graham was safely sequestered at Fort Bliss.

Since then, all hell had broken loose. Sam Tyler had personally led a rescue team to extract Bartowski and Casey and dispatch the NSA strike team. Walker and a Marine Corps pilot had taken out her NSA men in Belgrade and then escaped in a Navy aircraft. DEA Agent Carina Miller and a Marine Corps gunnery sergeant had extracted Graham from Fort Bliss practically unchallenged.

What was it with the Marine Corps, anyway?

But to make matters worse, Walker and her Marine pilot had then shown up on the USS _Dwight D. Eisenhower_ in the company of a US Navy pilot and none other than Bryce Larkin. They had extracted Commodore Saxon from custody, and when Captain Drexler had attempted to interdict them, the Marine pilot had stolen an F/A-18 Hornet, and blown Drexler from the sky.

And so, General Beckman thought that she was slowly slipping into the depths of hell – until her secure phone rang.

"This is Beckman, secure, and this had better be good."

"Yes, ma'am," came the voice of one of her agents. "We've discovered where Walker is – she used her NCA identification card at Andersen Air Force Base, and base commander General Skip Waterson logged it as such. She, along with Larkin, Saxon, Captain Will Williamson of the USMC, and Lieutenant Commander Rachel Harrison of the US Navy, are currently headed for Washington onboard a B-1 bomber from Andersen."

"You don't say," Beckman said, sitting up in her chair.

"Yes, ma'am. Also, the aircraft seen leaving Fort Bliss was identified as belonging to Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Mitchell Tucker of Moab, Utah."

Beckman groaned inwardly. Moab, making her life miserable yet again.

"Gunnery Sergeant Tucker rented a car in Knoxville, Tennessee, four hours ago. We have all the information on that car from Enterprise. According to its GPS, it is currently on Interstate 81, outside of Roanoke, Virginia."

"Any word on Bartowski and Casey?"

"No, ma'am."

"No matter. Just let me know when you have something."

She hung up the phone, and smiled. Her collapsed spiderweb was slowly rebuilding itself.

* * *

**6:40 PM, EST**

**Richmond, Virginia**

The black Chevrolet Impala sped down Interstate 64, headed eastbound – toward Hampton, Virginia, toward Langley. DEA Agent Carina Miller was at the wheel, while Gunnery Sergeant Mitch Tucker slept in the shotgun seat, and US Senator Langston Graham slept in the back seat.

Tucker had hopped the Beech King Air out of Fort Bliss easily, and then headed toward Washington. However, over Tennessee, one of the turboprops had decided to throw a blade, effectively disabling the aircraft for however long it took to get a new propeller for it.

He had landed at the Knoxville downtown airport. The three fugitives, all exhausted, had gone to a hotel for the night, and the next morning, visited the adjacent Enterprise office to pick up a car.

They had left Knoxville at noon and were headed toward Langley. They had all maintained strict phone silence, to keep the NSA from getting a bead on them.

But as Carina headed into Richmond, she noticed something strange. There was a black Lincoln Navigator a few cars back that had been on her tail for almost eighty miles. Perhaps not so odd out in the open country, but it was a little strange heading into the city.

"What's your game, buddy?" she asked quietly – and then, without warning, jerked the Impala across three lanes of traffic to take the exit for Gaskins Road. Sure enough, the Navigator cut across the road to follow her, and that was followed by another Navigator and a Suburban.

"Oh, this is not good," Carina muttered, as Tucker and Graham both blinked themselves awake, roused by the sudden maneuver.

"What's going on?" Graham asked sleepily.

"We've got a tail," Carina replied. "Probably NSA. Mitch, I need you to get out a gun and be ready for some action."

"Yes, ma'am," the Marine reservist replied.

Carina took a hard left onto Three Chopt Road, the three NSA vehicles following. She floored the accelerator, brining the Impala's speed up to nearly ninety.

Weaving in and out of traffic, Carina was creating some amount of havoc, which the three NSA vehicles only exacerbated. At one point, a police officer pulled out behind her, and she almost breathed a sigh of relief – but then, the NSA Suburban pulled up to the front and literally shoved the police car off the road.

After four miles on Three Chopt, Carina took a somewhat unexpected left onto state route 6, heading toward downtown Richmond. One of the Navigators overshot, but the other two vehicles followed her as if they were glued to her bumper.

"Shit!" she shouted. "Bastards!"

"You want me to start shooting?" Tucker asked.

"Not yet," she replied. "I still have a couple of tricks up my sleeve."

Three miles later, she took a left onto Malvern Avenue, and then almost immediately, a right onto Broad Street – the main drag into the center of Richmond. The NSA vehicles were starting to struggle to keep up with her maneuvers.

As they flew into the morass of one way streets that was downtown Richmond, Carina said, "Alright, Mitch, NOW."

"Happy to oblige," Tucker replied. He rolled down his window and leaned the upper half of his six and a half foot body out of the car, locking his legs around his seat. Drawing a bead on the lead Navigator, he put a bullet into its radiator. A cloud of steam erupted, but the Navigator kept going.

"Dammit," he hissed. The Suburban pulled around the lead Navigator, and Tucker fired twice. The driver swerved, and the bullets took out a side view mirror and a headlight. "God dammit!"

The steaming Navigator was starting to smoke as the engine ran hotter and hotter without coolant – but it was still coming. "Die, mother fucker," Tucker said, firing off the rest of his clip. He was bound to get lucky.

And he did. One of his bullets found the Navigator's left front tire. It swerved, clipping the Suburban, which lost control and began to roll. The smoking Navigator slammed into the rolling

Suburban just as flames began to shoot out from under its hood. The rear Navigator slammed on its brakes – and did a powerslide right into the other Navigator's rear end.

All the kinetic energy combined managed to rupture one of the vehicles' gas tanks, and as soon as the fumes were exposed to the flames coming out of the lead Navigator's front end, it exploded. "Holy shit!" yelped Tucker as he watched the enormous fireball form, not a block away. He ducked back into the Impala.

"I think we're good," he said, as Carina took a left onto Adams Street, to head toward Interstate 95.

* * *

**8:05 P.M. EST**

**Over Virginia**

The B-1B Lancer designated Homecoming-One had begun its descent into Langley Air Force Base when it was joined on either side by an F-16 from Langley. "Homecoming-One, this is Beagle Lead, do you read?"

The USAF pilot keyed his microphone. "This is Homecoming-One, over."

"Uh, Homecoming-One, we have orders to shoot you down… what the hell is going on?"

Sarah heard that in her headset and froze. "Uh, I have no idea, Beagle Lead. What do you mean, shoot us down? Over the state of Virginia?"

"I don't understand, either, Homecoming-One. Just tell me you have something that contradict the orders of a Lieutenant General, and we'll back off."

Sarah unbuckled her seatbelt and made her way to the pilot's seat. "I have something," she told him, retrieving her NCA card and handing it to him.

"Uh, I have a National Command Authority card here," the pilot informed Beagle Lead. "It is ID number 4047573."

"Copy that," Beagle Lead replied. "Does the holder of the ID card have orders?"

"Ma'am?" the pilot asked.

"Tell him to disregard his previous orders, and to land immediately."

"Beagle Lead, the orders are to disregard your previous orders, and to land immediately."

"Copy that," Beagle Lead said. He peeled off, the other F-16 following.

"You are one high priority woman, ma'am," the pilot said, looking up at Sarah.

"I think you'd find my husband agrees with you."

* * *

**8:15 PM EST**

**Fort Meade, Maryland**

General Beckman picked up her phone as it rang. "Beckman, secure."

"Uh, ma'am, we have a problem," came the voice of the agent who had spoken to her earlier. "Agent Miller and Gunny Tucker managed to evade our strike team in Virginia – in fact, they managed to cause a traffic accident that destroyed all three of the strike team vehicles. Three miles later, they stopped their vehicle and removed the GPS unit."

"Shit," Beckman breathed.

"Uh, there's more, ma'am," the agent continued. "The F-16s that were launched from Langley to shoot down the B-1, uh, they refused to comply with those orders. They said that they were given orders by the holder of a National Command Authority ID card that superseded their previous orders."

Beckman put a hand to her forehead. "Let me guess. ID number 4047573."

"Yes, ma'am, Agent Sarah Walker."

General Beckman just sat there for a moment – and then, without warning, picked up the STU-8 and hurled it through her window.

"FUCK!"

* * *

**8:25 PM EST**

As the B-1B taxied toward the staging area at Langley Air Force Base, the occupants could see a lone black Ford Crown Victoria racing across the base toward them. It was anybody's guess as to who was in that car.

An old GMC pickup with a set of stairs attached to it pulled up next to the Lancer, situating itself next to the hatch. The Crown Vic rolled to a stop next to the truck, and its three occupants climbed out to wait at the bottom of the stairs.

Forrest Saxon was the first one off the plane. "Commodore Saxon!" Sam Tyler called as soon as he saw him. "We need to talk, sir, immediately!"

The Navy flag officer nodded, tiredly. He'd been expecting this debrief for a while.

Will Williamson and Rachel Harrison followed Saxon, and Bryce Larkin came immediately behind Harrison, holding her hand. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, John Casey looked at Bryce.

"Larkin," he growled. Bryce ignored him, and turned to the other man standing there – Chuck Bartowski.

"Seems like the shit always hits the fan when we're involved in something together, eh, Chuck?" he said with a grin.

"The shitteth hath been splattered all over the walleth," Chuck replied, deadpan.

Bryce's smile got a little bigger. "Haven't heard that… well, since our last kegger at Stanford… uh, before…"

"Yeah," Chuck said, distractedly. He suddenly found he didn't care what Bryce had to say.

In an instant, he had dashed up to the top of the airstairs. Looking down a couple of inches, he looked into the eyes of his very, very tired wife.

"Hey, you," Chuck said, almost shyly.

"Hey to you, too," she replied, in the same tone of voice.

Chuck kissed Sarah gently, trying not to overwhelm her. She closed her eyes and savored the feeling of his lips on hers – it hadn't even been sixty hours, but it seemed like an eternity since he had last kissed her.

When they broke, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. Looking into his eyes was almost hypnotic, especially with how exhausted she was. But when she looked in those eyes, she knew, right then and there, that it was almost over – she'd be able to go home soon, they could return to their kids.

"Alright, Chuck," she said softly. "Let's finish this."


	21. Interlude, Ensenada

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Interlude 4_**

** CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Morgan Grimes - Joshua Gomez  
**  
__****Author's note**_: so I was asked what was going on with the civilian crew on the West Coast. Figured I'd fill in a little with an interlude!_

* * *

**6:00 PM, Pacific Standard Time**

**February 18****th****, 2012**

**Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico**

Everybody had sort of crashed out. Once again, the kids had had a blast of an afternoon, playing on the beach, going out to see La Bufadora, and generally running Devin and Ellie ragged.

Morgan had expended probably just as much energy as both of the Woodcombs, but after half a dozen Rockstars over the course of the day, he was up for the duration.

So he sat in front of the big plasma TV in John Casey's safe house in Ensenada, playing GTA IV. He figured he was safe as long as the kids were asleep – Ellie had made it quite clear that there would be no violent video games as long as the kids were around.

But when little John Marcus Bartowski came toddling into the room, Morgan killed the game. He didn't want Ellie to have the slightest inkling that there had been any violence or larceny going on onscreen while one of the kids was around.

"Unca Morg!" John exclaimed, smiling. He gingerly walked across the room to Morgan.

"Hey, buddy!" Morgan said, scooping him up. "Did you just wak – oh, dude. OH."

There was an unmistakable scent wafting up from little John's backside. Morgan looked at him with an accusing eye. "Are you poopy?"

John giggled and nodded. "Crap," Morgan breathed.

Holding John at arm's length, he walked out into the living room. Ellie and Devin were both asleep on the couch, and as much as Morgan didn't want to change John's diaper, he wasn't going to wake one of the two of them up to do it.

"Okay, buddy," Morgan intoned, lying John down on the floor in what had become the babies' room. "This is my first time doing this, so have patience."

He grabbed a fresh diaper and the wipes. He'd watched the Woodcombs and the Bartowskis, all four of them, do this several times – how hard could it be?

Morgan unfastened John's diaper and opened it – and immediately recoiled from the stench. "Dude, what the heck have you been eating?"

John just laid there and laughed, like it was the funniest thing in the world. Trying not to breathe, Morgan lifted him by his feet, and pulled the diaper out from under him. John had managed to poop in such a manner that it had spread all over his behind.

"This is not cool," Morgan grumbled, grabbing a diaper wipe. Three wipes later, he had cleaned everything off of John's bottom.

"You owe me big time, buddy," he said as he slid a clean diaper under John's bottom. Then he felt something warm on his shirt. Warm and wet.

He looked down. John was projectile peeing on him, all the while laughing his head off.

"No! Bad! BAD BABY!"


	22. Sunday, Bloody Sunday, Part 1

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 17_**

** CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Carina Miller - Mini Anden  
Gunnery Sgt. Mitch Tucker - Terry Crews  
Sen. Langston Graham - Tony Todd  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Dr. Samuel Tyler, DCI - John Simm  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer  
Lt. Comm. Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
Commodore Forrest Saxon - Gabriel Byrne  
General Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Lieutenant Roger Mantle - Shawn Hatosy  
The President of the United States - Martin Sheen

**6:00 A.M., Eastern Standard Time**

**Sunday, February 19****th****, 2012**

**CIA Headquarters, Langley, VA**

Chuck awoke to the clock radio playing a familiar, almost military drumbeat. The nearly thirty year old U2 song quickly roused him from his slumber.

It was, as Devin Woodcomb would have undoubtedly termed it, "Go time."

The car bearing Carina Miller, Mitch Tucker, and Langston Graham had arrived at Langley shortly after the B-1 carrying the globetrotting agents had arrived. When Carina had seen Chuck, she had given him a very coquettish look and blown a kiss in his direction, something that had prompted a very exhausted and very cranky Sarah Walker Bartowski to actually put her right hand on the butt of her gun, before Chuck gently pulled her arm back and slipped his hand into hers.

That night, the training barracks at Langley had housed four intelligence agents, three US military officers, two civilians, "and an NCO in a pear tree," Sam Tyler had grumbled. They were all under heavy guard, with a group of very carefully vetted military policeman from Langley Air Force Base having been pressed into service.

DCI Sam Tyler was up most of the night making phone calls. Through contacts in the US Army, the US Secret Service and the Virginia State Police, he set up one hell of a motorcade from Langley to the White House.

The next morning, the small "band of freedom fighters," as John Casey had jokingly dubbed them, awoke early, before the sun rose, to see Sam Tyler's motorcade sitting outside. Three jet black original recipe Hummer H1 wagons sat in the center, flanked by four Chevrolet Suburbans, half a dozen unmarked Ford Crown Victorias, a dozen Dodge Chargers in the livery of the Virginia State Police, and two Saleen Mustang interceptors from the Maryland Highway Patrol. Six BMW R1200 motorcycles with MHP markings were also parked around the motorcade.

"Jesus God in heaven," John Casey uttered upon seeing the motorcade. "This is more protection than the President gets."

"I guess Sam Tyler REALLY wants us to get there alive," Chuck replied.

**_Can't believe the news today… I can't close my eyes and make it go away… how long, how long must we sing this song? How long, how long?_**

The motorcade departed Langley at 6:30 A.M., bound for the White House. It was about a three hour drive, and Senator Graham and Director Tyler had arranged a meeting with the President at 10:00 A.M. that Sunday.

Chuck, Sarah, and Casey found themselves in the lead Hummer. Bryce, Commander Harrison, Captain Williamson, and Carina rode in the one behind them, and Director Tyler, Senator Graham, Gunny Tucker, and Commodore Saxon rode in the tail Hummer.

As the motorcade rolled eastbound on I-64 toward Richmond, Chuck noted with no small amusement that it took up the entire freeway. "Nobody would be able to approach us or pass us," he remarked. "It's a good thing we're going ninety."

"We're still vulnerable," Casey groused. "Fighters, helicopters – I don't think there's a single pie in this country that Fulcrum doesn't have at least one finger in."

"So, if this all works out," Chuck said, "about poker night tomorrow… we really can't have it at our house. There's a great gaping hole in the front."

"No excuse, Bartowski," Casey shot back. "You're a miserable host. You're gonna pawn this off on me, aren't you?"

"Of course!" Chuck replied with a grin. "Well, depending on how things go. You know, this time tomorrow we could be in jail, on the run, dead… we better hope that we can stop this thing in its tracks."

"Shouldn't be too much of a problem," Sarah interjected, speaking for the first time. She showed them the front page of the Washington Post. _Da Silva, Paisley, Tadić, Yuschenko arrive in Washington_, the headline said. Below that, the subheadline read, _Chiefs of state to hold press conference with President on nuclear disarmament_.

Chuck and Casey both stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment. "Were you… was this YOU?" Chuck asked.

Sarah smiled. "Why do you think I had to fly across the globe? Three of those men owed me favors, and the fourth is just generally a good person. I figured that if we secured international support, it would be very difficult for Fulcrum to move ahead with their plan."

"Hate to admit it, but I like the way you think, Walker," Casey said.

"So do I," Chuck added. "Might have a little bit to do with why I married you."

"Speaking of which, what are we doing for our anniversary?"

**_Tonight… we can be as one, tonight… broken bottles under children's feet, bodies strewn across the dead end street..._**

* * *

**7:41 A.M., EST**

**Fort Meade, Maryland**

General Diane Beckman had fallen asleep at her desk the night before. About half an hour before she fell asleep, technicians had come to replace her secure telephone and her office window, her previous phone having been thrown through the window.

She woke up when the new phone trilled. She groaned and stared at it, not wanting to pick it up. It could only bring more bad news. Bad news, such as it had brought her repeatedly over the last forty eight hours.

General Beckman was watching everything she had worked toward so carefully the last fifteen years go directly down the drain. The ECOMCON plan, Fulcrum – it was all crumbling to pieces, thanks to Chuck Bartowski and damnable Bryce Larkin – the man who had set the whole Human Intersect in motion.

She picked up the phone, looking at it as if it were a live grenade, ready to go off in her face. "Beckman, secure."

"General Beckman," came the excited voice of one of her agents, "that entire group is in a motorcade headed for Washington, DC!"

Beckman sat up straight in her chair, and her eyes took on a new gleam. "Really."

"Yes, ma'am. It's a very large motorcade, too – thirty-three vehicles, headed northbound on I-95."

She smiled for the first time in hours. "Do we still have any Fulcrum pilots who haven't gone underground?"

"Yes, ma'am. There's one at NAS Patuxent River. He's an F/A-18 pilot, Lieutenant Roger Mantle."

Beckman smiled again and hung up the phone. Looking up Lieutenant Mantle's phone number, she dialed.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Mantle," she said when he answered. "I need you to listen to me very carefully…"

**_I won't heed the battle call, it puts my back up, puts my back up against the wall… Sunday, bloody Sunday… Sunday, bloody Sunday…_**

* * *

**9:30 A.M. EST**

**F/A-18 Hornet "Scorpion-One"**

**Washington, DC**

Lieutenant Roger Mantle was slightly confused about what he was supposed to be doing. Yes, he was loyal to Fulcrum, through and through. Yes, he was willing to die for the organization to keep America great.

But this order? This didn't quite calculate.

In his conversation with General Beckman, she had given him a set of orders, and then told him that if wanted confirmation, he could speak with Rear Admiral Richard Larsen, the commander of NAS Pax River. And Mantle had done just that. He had called Admiral Larsen, and asked him what the hell was going on.

Larsen told him in no uncertain terms that he was to do exactly what Beckman had said. His Hornet would be ready in twenty minutes.

And so Mantle had gone airborne thirty minutes after receiving the call from Beckman. He was told to take up orbit around Washington – certainly nothing abnormal about that, F/A-18s from Pax River and F-16s from Langley were seen orbiting DC all the time, just as they had for the past ten and a half years.

At just after 9:15 AM, he was given the go order. His target was a motorcade, that would be entering Washington, DC, at any time. He was to wait until they were on the bridge, and then attack.

Mantle reduced his orbit to a small area over the Pentagon and Arlington National Cemetery, watching the bridges into the city. And then, there it was, on the US Highway 1 Arland D. Williams Memorial Bridge. Traffic was moving slowly, and so the motorcade crept forward onto the bridge at no more than fifteen miles an hour.

Lieutenant Mantle turned his Hornet toward Virginia and blasted out about twenty miles, turning back to follow the Potomac River. He chopped his altitude down to about two hundred feet, high enough to avoid any obstacles, but low enough that his Mach 0.95 speed created quite the wake on the surface of the river.

At ten miles out, his computer locked onto the Williams Memorial Bridge, and at five miles out, he hit the "launch commit" button. When he did so, an AGM-84E SLAM missile ejected itself from his left wing, and its motor fired. He watched as the SLAM covered the five miles in under two minutes, crashing into the bridge with a fiery explosion. Two entire spans dropped into the river, taking most of the motorcade with it.

**_And the battle's just begun, there's many lost, but tell me, who has won? The trench is dug within our hearts, mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart!_**

* * *

**9:41 A.M., EST**

**Washington, D.C.**

What Lieutenant Roger Mantle didn't know, what he couldn't have known, was that the CIA motorcade had exited I-395 at Jefferson Davis Highway, and driven north past Arlington National Cemetery, crossing the Potomac on the Arlington Memorial Bridge. The lead driver's justification for that had been to avoid traffic.

The motorcade on the Arland D. Williams Memorial Bridge had been a funeral procession.

Sarah, Chuck, and Casey had all watched in horror, after hearing the AGM-84E blow past, as the missile had slammed into the US-1 bridge and dropped it, burning, into the Potomac River. That was followed by the shock wave from Mantle's F/A-18 Hornet as it blasted overhead.

The lead driver didn't hesitate one instant. "GO GO GO!" he shouted into his radio, pushing the accelerator in his Saleen Mustang down. The rest of the motorcade had rapidly accelerated with him, pushing its speed from forty to eighty inside of a minute.

The entire motorcade took the curving ramp from the bridge onto Ohio Drive at far too fast a speed for comfort. Drivers scrambled to get out of the way as they heard the sirens and saw the large collection of vehicles bearing down on them.

As the cars turned off of Ohio Drive onto E Street, they took up the entire right hand side of the road. Curious drivers and pedestrians snapped pictures of the motorcade as it went by, wondering who could possibly be that important.

A moment later, the motorcade whipped off of E Street onto 17th Street, and then just as quickly turned right onto State Place, taking them onto the White House grounds. The guards at the shack couldn't remember ever having seen vehicles go past them at forty miles per hour before, but they had been alerted that it would be happening.

The police vehicles peeled off to go to the south of the White House, but the three Hummers and the four Suburbans turned north onto Executive Drive, taking them around to the front entrance into the West Wing. The vehicles squealed to a stop in the driveway. Secret Service agents yanked the doors of the Hummers open. "MOVE!" an agent blared at Chuck, Sarah, and Casey.

They didn't argue – they got out of the Hummer quickly. They were hustled inside by Secret Service agents, and as soon as they were inside the Executive Mansion, the vehicles took off again.

**_Sunday, bloody Sunday… Sunday, bloody Sunday… how long, how long must we sing this song? How long, how long?_**

Once they were inside the White House and the doors were shut, things calmed a bit. Director Tyler and Senator Graham both showed their passes; the other eight were all issued visitor's passes. Sarah, Casey, Bryce, Carina, and Commodore Saxon had all been to the White House before, but Chuck, Will Williamson, Rachel Harrison, and Gunny Tucker all looked around like kids at Disneyland as they were led through the West Wing toward the Oval Office.

When they reached the receptionist's office outside the Oval, they were shown into the Oval Office by the President's administrative assistant. "The President is on his way back from church," she told them. "He should be here within ten minutes."

She invited them all to take a seat on the couches in the office. The eleven men and women sat, looking nervously at each other as the sound of distant sirens penetrated into the office.

A few minutes later, a Marine jerked the front door of the Oval Office open, and the President stormed in, surrounded by Secret Service agents. Everybody leapt to their feet. The President may have looked old – and at 75, he WAS old – but his eyes were ablaze, his mouth set in a hard, firm line, and he was CLEARLY in charge.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OUT THERE, PEOPLE?" he demanded as he burst in. "Why is there a collapsed bridge burning on the Potomac, and why the HELL are the DC Metro Police telling me that there could be as many as 150 people DEAD out there?"

"Uh, that's actually what we're here to talk to you about, Mr. President," Sam Tyler began, but the President cut him off.

"Shut up, Tyler," he snapped. "You!"

Chuck's eyes widened as he realized the President was pointing at him. "Me?"

"Yes, you, you're the Human Intersect, right?"

"Uh, yes, Mr. President, yes, that's correct."

"You look like you couldn't bullshit me if your life depended on it, so I want to hear the whole story from you. Start talking!"

**_Tonight, we can be as one, tonight… tonight… Sunday, bloody Sunday… Sunday, bloody Sunday…_**

"Well, sir," Chuck began, "this all started a week ago. As I'm sure you're aware, the Intersect database in my brain gives me the ability to flash on certain pieces of intelligence based on visual and aural stimuli."

"Yes," the President confirmed. "Continue."

"Last Monday, Lieutenant Colonel John Casey, of the United States Air Force Reserve and the National Security Agency –"

"That's you, right?" the President interrupted, pointing at Casey.

"Yes, sir."

"He received a letter from March Air Reserve Base, ordering him to report tomorrow for the ECOMCON exercise."

"That's the exercise I'm supposed to go to Mount Weather for tomorrow, correct?" the President asked, turning to his chief of staff.

"Yes, sir, that's correct," she confirmed.

"Continue, Mr. Bartowski."

"So, I was at Colonel Casey's apartment last Monday, February 13th, and I saw the call up letter," Chuck continued. "I flashed on the word ECOMCON, and the intelligence I saw indicated that it's actually a cover for a plan, drafted by a covert organization known as Fulcrum, to remove you from office – a _maskirovka_, if you will."

The President's eyes widened. "WHAT?"

"Yes, sir," Chuck replied. "Over the course of six hours, I intentionally forced myself to flash on the plan repeatedly, and transcribed it all – I have it here," he said, digging a flash drive out of his pocket. "The document title is, uh, ''."

The President smiled at that as he took the flash drive. "Sense of humor under pressure, not bad."

"Yes, sir," Chuck replied. "I then saw a report on CNN showing Commodore Saxon reporting to the USS _Dwight D. Eisenhower_ as commander of CTF-77. He was the author of the plan."

The President turned his gaze on Saxon. "You have some explaining to do, bub."

"Yes, sir," Saxon replied, his face downcast.

"We reported all this to Director Tyler and General Beckman of the NSA. In turn, they dispatched Agent Bryce Larkin of the CIA to the _Eisenhower_ to confront, and if necessary, eliminate Commodore Saxon," Chuck said. "My personal theory was that Commodore Saxon had left Fulcrum, and as a result, had been posted as far away from Washington as Fulcrum could place him.

"Upon arriving on the _Eisenhower_, Agent Larkin spoke with Commodore Saxon, who confirmed my theory that he had left Fulcrum. He provided Agent Larkin with a list of the high-powered members of Fulcrum, which included General Melvin Powers, General Robert Kellerman, Admiral Frederick McConnell, Homeland Security Director Linda Foster, Defense Secretary Marianne O'Hare, Supreme Court Justice Ian Noble, Senator Lou DeBlasio, and General Diane Beckman herself."

**_Wipe the tears from your eyes, wipe your tears away… wipe your tears away… wipe your tears away… wipe your bloodshot eyes… Sunday, bloody Sunday… Sunday, bloody Sunday!_**

The President's eyes had gone wide. "You're shitting me, right, Bartowski?"

"I wish I was, Mr. President," Chuck replied. "But it gets worse. Commodore Saxon warned Agent Larkin that he would likely be in danger if he returned to the United States the way he had come, and so he detached Lieutenant Commander Rachel Harrison and a C-2A Greyhound for Agent Larkin to escape in the other direction. They took a series of short flights to Belgrade, Serbia, where they landed their plane and hid due to engine problems.

"Meanwhile, General Beckman ordered Captain Jack Drexler, former commander of Air Wing 7, to place Commodore Saxon under arrest and hold him in the brig. She also ordered Colonel Casey to eliminate both myself and my wife, Agent Sarah Walker. Colonel Casey refused to obey orders. General Beckman apparently suspected that he would, and ordered an NSA strike team to carry out the operation. Fortunately, Director Tyler had just the night before ordered armor and bulletproof glass installed in our house, and so the NSA strike team was unable to breach the house before Colonel Casey arrived and eliminated them.

"We escaped from Los Angeles to San Diego. Upon reaching San Diego, we formulated a plan. Colonel Casey and I would fly to Virginia and lie low in the countryside for a few days, while Agent Walker embarked on a global mission with Captain Will Williamson of the Marine Corps to curry international support."

The President narrowed his eyes. "Wait a minute," he said, "is that why Da Silva, Paisley, Tadić, and Yuschenko are here?"

"Yes, Mr. President," Sarah interjected. "I personally visited each one of them and asked them to come to Washington.

"While I was in Belgrade, the NSA managed to find my plane and impound it. I unexpectedly encountered Agent Larkin, and we were able to escape to NAS Sigonella, using the C-2 that he had. Its engines cut out as we were landing; however, we were able to convince the watch commander to detach an ES-3 Shadow to us, which we decided to fly to the _Eisenhower_and spring Commodore Saxon from custody."

"Meanwhile," Chuck continued, "Colonel Casey and I were discovered in Virginia by the NSA. They attempted to eliminate us again, but Director Tyler had caught wind of the plan, and led in a rescue team to extract us. We were removed to CIA headquarters at Langley, which is where we've been for the last two days.

"While all this was going on, Senator Art Graham went to Fort Bliss to 'inspect' the ECOMCON command facility. He was detained by Fulcrum forces at Fort Bliss; however, we were able to arrange for DEA Agent Carina Miller and Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Mitchell Tucker to infiltrate the base and extract Senator Graham.

"As that was happening, Agent Walker, Agent Larkin, Commander Harrison, and Captain Williamson landed on the_Eisenhower_ and extracted Commodore Saxon. Due to the number of seats in the ES-3 Shadow, they had to leave Captain Williamson onboard the _Eisenhower_. This, however, proved to be fortuitous, because Captain Drexler pursued the Shadow in an F-14 Tomcat. Captain Williamson, um, appropriated an F/A-18 Hornet – his primary aircraft type – pursued Captain Drexler, and shot his aircraft down just as he was about to initiate an attack on the ES-3."

**_And it's true we are immune, when fact is fiction and TV reality. And today the millions cry, we eat and drink, while tomorrow they die!_**

"This is unbelievable," the President uttered.

"There's a little more left," Chuck replied. "The ES-3 and Captain Williamson's F/A-18 landed on Guam, where they were given transport on a B-1B Lancer back to Washington. Meanwhile, Senator Graham, Gunnery Sergeant Tucker, and Agent Miller had departed Fort Bliss, but aircraft problems had forced them to land in Knoxville, where they rented a car to drive to Washington.

"Both groups were attacked en route – Agent Miller's car was ambushed in Richmond by an NSA strike team; however, Gunny Tucker was able to fight them off. In addition, two F-16s from Langley Air Force Base were dispatched to shoot down the B-1 which the other group was on; however, Agent Walker convinced them to disregard their orders and return to base.

"Both groups eventually arrived at Langley safely. Director Tyler organized a massive motorcade to bring us all to the White House. Somehow, information about the motorcade must have leaked to Fulcrum, and as we were on our way here, a single F/A-18 Hornet – where from, we don't yet know – attempted to attack us, but attacked the wrong bridge. After a few harrowing moments on the streets, we arrived safely here – and that brings us to just before you arrived."

The President stared at Chuck in disbelief. Crossing behind the old desk made from timbers from the old HMS _Resolute_, he sat down heavily in his chair, suddenly looking his age.

After a moment of silence, he picked up his phone. "Carla," he said, sounding weary and hurt, "I need Mel Powers, Bob Kellerman, Fred McConnell, Linda Foster, Marianne O'Hare, Ian Noble, Lou DeBlasio, and Diane Beckman in here. I need to see them RIGHT NOW."

_****__And the battle's just begun, to claim the victory that Jesus won, on a Sunday, bloody Sunday… Sunday, bloody Sunday._


	23. Sunday, Part 2

**_ Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Chapter 18_**

** CAST (in order of appearance):  
**The President of the United States - Martin Sheen  
General Leland Stanfield - Dale Dye  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Dr. Samuel Tyler, DCI - John Simm  
General Melvin Powers - Brian Cox  
General Robert Kellerman - Jim Beaver  
Admiral Frederick McConnell - John Amos  
General Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Secretary Linda Foster - Jenny Gago  
Secretary Marianne O'Hare - Julianne Moore  
Justice Ian Noble - George Takei  
Senator Louis DeBlasio - Michael McGrady  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Carina Miller - Mini Anden  
Gunnery Sgt. Mitch Tucker - Terry Crews  
Sen. Langston Graham - Tony Todd  
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer  
Lt. Comm. Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
Commodore Forrest Saxon - Gabriel Byrne

**10:30 AM, Eastern Standard Time**

**February 19****th****, 2012**

**The White House, Washington, D.C.**

After having the Fulcrum Eight – the "snappy nickname" the President had come up with for them – summoned to the White House, the President had then called General Leland Stanfield and asked him to come to the White House as well.

When Stanfield arrived, the President had had Chuck bring him up to speed on the events of the last six days. When Chuck finished, Stanfield looked at him for a moment, and then said, "You're the young man who disabled the bomb at the Wilshire Grand Hotel a few years ago, are you not?"

"Yes, sir, that was me," Chuck replied.

"Then I do believe I can trust you."

The President had decided to move the group to the Roosevelt Room, as it was larger and could easily accommodate all the individuals about to be confronted with the lies that they were living – in addition to accommodating an increased security presence. The President had wanted to bring in additional Secret Service agents, but while Director Tyler was willing to trust the President's personal detail, there was no time to vet other agents for Fulcrum connections, and so the President consented to bringing in CIA protective detail agents instead.

At 10:45, the group began to arrive. The three Joint Chiefs – Powers, Kellerman, and McConnell – arrived first, and they seemed surprised to see Stanfield there, and rather disturbed to see Forrest Saxon. Lou DeBlasio arrived shortly thereafter, and seemed displeased to see Sam Tyler and Art Graham.

Linda Foster, Marianne O'Hare, and Ian Noble all seemed a little confused when they arrived, not entirely sure why they had been summoned by the President on a Sunday morning. Diane Beckman, however, when she arrived, tried to immediately take charge of the situation.

"Mr. President, I don't know if you're aware of this, but you are currently harboring three international fugitives," she announced, pointing to Chuck, Sarah, and Casey.

The President looked at General Beckman with murder in his eyes. "General Beckman," he growled, "you will sit your ass down and shut the fuck up, or so HELP ME GOD…"

He left the threat unfinished, hanging in the air. Beckman, suitably intimidated, sat down and was quiet.

The President rose from his chair, and everybody rose with him. "Oh, for God's sake, sit down," he said irritably. "Let's forget about protocol for a moment – there are more important issues to deal with here."

The people in the room sat back down – the Fulcrum Eight on the President's left, Chuck, Sarah, Casey and all their cohorts on his right.

"It seems we have a problem," the President began. "And at the crux of this problem – or, should I perhaps say, at the FULCRUM of this problem, are the eight of you."

He pointed at the eight men and women to his left, and the room went dead silent. An ant crawling across the floor would have been heard.

"In the past week," the President continued, "you have put into motion a plot to remove me from my Constitutionally appointed office. You have attempted to destroy a family for no other reason than the fact that they are good, patriotic Americans. You have attempted to murder three intelligence agents, one civilian, and three military officers. You have illegally detained a United States Senator and a highly decorated task force commander. And finally, you have SUCCEEDED in dropping a bridge into the Potomac River, resulting in the deaths of the majority of a funeral procession for a soldier who died in Iraq."

The eyes of seven of the Fulcrum Eight went wide – clearly, they were not aware that Fulcrum was responsible for the incident on the Arland D. Williams Bridge. Seven accusatory sets of eyes swung toward Diane Beckman, who seemed to try to shrink under the table.

Then they turned back toward the President. The President was beginning to look like an angry god. His skin had taken on a slightly pink flush, contrasting with his stark white hair. A righteous fury seemed to blaze behind his eyes.

"He shall separate them one from another," the President said in a low, dangerous voice, quoting by memory the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, "as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats. And he shall gather the sheep on his right hand, and the goats on his left.

"And he shall say unto them on his left hand, depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels. And these shall go away into everlasting punishment."

He stared into their eyes, one by one, and not one of the Fulcrum Eight was able to hold the President's gaze. Each of them cast their eyes down to the table as the President looked on them.

"When you leave this building," he said, quietly, "you will leave here unemployed. Each of you will resign your post before departing the White House."

General Beckman spoke again. "Mr. President, you have no hard evidence to tie any of us to these events. You have only the intelligence that comes from the head of a human being, and a rather unreliable one at that."

Chuck and Sarah were seated directly across from her. Beckman stared at the two of them, as if daring one of them to do something. Chuck rasied an eyebrow, and then wordlessly lifted his hand, and raised the middle finger.

Sarah's reaction was a little less restrained. She stood slowly from her seat and walked around the end of the table. General Beckman rose from her seat, expecting a verbal confrontation. "Agent Walker –" she started, but Sarah didn't let her finish.

Sarah pulled back her arm and socked Beckman in the face with as much force as she could muster. The NSA director fell to the floor, and Sarah stepped over her. Beckman looked up at her, fear in her eyes and blood gushing from her nose.

"Do you remember what you told me in Flagstaff, four years ago, General Beckman?" Sarah asked quietly. "You told me that as an intelligence professional, my actions in extracting Chuck from Moab were abhorrent to you. However, you told me that as a woman, you understood my motivations."

Sarah squatted down, getting as close to Beckman as she could. "Well, let me tell you something, General Beckman. As an intelligence professional, your actions in abusing the intelligence system, trying to unseat the President, and generally being a piece of shit are abhorrent to me. And as a woman, I would like nothing better than to strangle you with my bare hands. You tried to kill me, you tried to kill my husband, but worst of all, you tried to kill my CHILDREN, and for that, I should end you."

"Agent Walker…" The President's warning tone broke through Sarah's "terminator" mode, and she stood back to her feet.

"My apologies, Mr. President," Sarah said, walking back around the table to her seat. Nobody moved to help Beckman, and so she dragged herself back to her seat, keeping a hand to her nose to stanch the flow of blood.

"Well, General Beckman, let me reply to your inference that we would not be able to make a case against you," the President said. "Those of you who choose to resign before walking out this door, I guarantee you that you will be allowed to live in peace. The FBI will be closely monitoring you for the rest of your days, you can be sure of that, but you will be free to continue to live your lives. No charges will be pressed against the civilians, and there will be no courts-martial for those of you in the military."

He paused for a moment. "Those of you, however, who choose NOT to resign… well, you will not leave this building. I find it distasteful, but I will not hesitate to use extraordinary renditions on you. Is that crystal clear?"

Nobody spoke for a very long moment. Finally, General Powers cleared his throat.

"Mr. President," he said, "at this time, I feel that I can no longer discharge the duties of Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force. Therefore, I hereby tender my resignation, effective immediately."

"Thank you, General," the President replied. "Anybody else?"

"I also wish to tender my resignation," Admiral McConnell added, and General Kellerman quickly followed with, "I do as well."

"Thank you, gentlemen," the President said. "General Stanfield, at this time, the post of Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is vacant. As you are currently the only sitting Chief of Staff, I wish to put your name before Congress for confirmation as the new Chairman. Will you accept this post?"

"I will, with honor," Stanfield replied gravely.

"Very good," the President said. "Now, are there any other resignations to be tendered?"

"I wish to resign," Secretary Foster said.

"As do I," Secretary O'Hare added.

Justice Noble looked up at the President. "I will resign as well."

Senator Lou DeBlasio looked across the table, first at Director Tyler, then at Senator Graham. There was hatred in his eyes as he turned his face to the President.

"I must submit my resignation to the Governor of Utah," he said through gritted teeth, "but you can rest assured that I will resign."

And then, the President's eyes turned to General Beckman. Her hand still to her face, bruises were already starting to form around her nose. She said nothing – just stared silently back at him.

The President nodded. "Alright, then." He turned his gaze to the other side of the table. "Agent Walker? Colonel Casey?"

The two rose from their chairs and withdrew their guns from behind their backs – Casey his Glock, Sarah her Colt 1911 that she had retrieved from Chuck. They both pulled the slides back and aimed the guns at General Beckman's head.

The faces of the other seven of the Fulcrum Eight had gone pale. Chuck's eyes had gone wide, but he wasn't exactly shocked.

"General Beckman," the President said, "this is your final chance."

She stared back at the President, then turned her gaze to Casey, then to Sarah, and finally, to Chuck. She locked eyes with him. Chuck looked right back at her.

Finally, she opened her mouth, and said, "I resign."

* * *

**1:00 P.M., Eastern Standard Time**

The Fulcrum Eight were allowed to leave after filling out official letters of resignation. They were all advised that they needed to stay in the Washington area for the next few days, because it was likely that they would be called before closed sessions of the House and Senate Intelligence Committees to testify regarding Fulcrum and ECOMCON.

Before the civilians and military members who had brought down the plan left the White House, General Stanfield made a brief announcement from the White House Press Room.

"This announcement is for all service men and women of the United States Uniformed Services," he said. "The ECOMCON exercise scheduled for tomorrow has been cancelled. Those members on active duty will continue their regularly scheduled deployments. Reservists and National Guardsmen do not need to report to their bases. That is all."

And with that, he departed the briefing room. Chuck and Sarah had been standing in the back of the room. When General Stanfield finished the announcement, Sarah squeezed Chuck's hand and looked at him.

"We did it," she said softly. "You and me – we saved the United States government. And nobody will ever know."

"That's quite alright," Chuck replied with a smile. "I just want to go home and see our kids."

Sarah smiled back. "Let's go home, then."

As they were leaving the White House, Carina walked up to them. "Just a fair warning," she said, a flirtatious smile on her face. "I WILL be coming to collect on the debt that you owe me for getting Senator Graham out of Fort Bliss."

Chuck just smiled and shook his head, but Sarah raised an eyebrow. "You might THINK that," Sarah shot back, "but I can assure you that you will wind up floating facedown in Lake Balboa if you try it."

Carina's smile changed from flirtatious to downright seductive. "Bring it on, Agent Walker."

And with that, she strutted away, making sure to put a little extra bounce into her walk. Sarah sighed and rolled her eyes – and then noticed that Chuck's gaze was a little too fixed on Carina's behind, which earned him a smack to the back of the head.

A Secret Service Suburban delivered Casey, Chuck, and Sarah to the little airstrip in Bumpass, Virginia, where Casey's Lear 35J was parked. Chuck called Ellie before they took off to tell her that it was safe to return home. Ellie was quite pleased to hear that news.

Casey's Lear landed them at Hawthorne Airport just after 4:00 PM Pacific Time. Morgan's van – no longer the Mystery Machine, Chuck noticed – sat outside Hangar Seven, where Casey parked the Lear.

"I took your advice, Casey," Morgan said as they came out of the hangar. "Had the van painted completely white."

And so it was. But Chuck and Sarah could've cared less about that. Morgan slid open the sliding door, and out tumbled Lisa and John. They ran across the pavement, yelling, "Mama! Dada!"

Tears sprang to both of the adult Bartowskis' eyes as their children ran toward them. Chuck bent down and scooped up Lisa, while Sarah corralled John into her arms. John squirmed and laughed as his mother kissed him repeatedly, but Lisa looked solemnly into her father's eyes.

"No Ful-cum, Dada?"

"No more Fulcrum, Lisa," Chuck promised her. And with that, she smiled, and wrapped her little arms around her father's neck.

Chuck and Sarah figured that the house was still in pretty bad condition, so they told Morgan just to take them by the house so that they could collect enough clothes to stay at a hotel for the night. To their surprise, however, when they reached the house, the front end looked like nothing had ever happened.

"What the hell?" Chuck asked in surprise as he opened the front door and they stepped inside.

There, on the coffee table in the living room, was the answer. Sitting next to the cell phones that had been abandoned on the front lawn was a small card. Chuck picked it up and opened it.

"Courtesy of the Drug Enforcement Administration," the card said. "Now you owe me double. Love, Carina."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "She really wants to get dead," she said.

Then she turned to Chuck. "Let's put the kids down for a nap, and then" - she grew a naughty smile on her face - "let's go to bed, shall we?"

Chuck smiled back. "I think that's an excellent idea."

* * *

**8:30 PM, Eastern Standard Time**

"My fellow Americans, good evening.

"As you are all aware, this morning, there was a tragic accident here in Washington, DC. An F/A-18 Hornet, on a routine patrol over the city, accidentally deployed a missile which struck the Arland D. Williams Memorial Bridge. The explosion resulted in the destruction of the bridge, and unfortunately, we fear that a large number of people perished in the explosion. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of the victims of this unfortunate accident.

"Furthermore, four members of our military leadership, in addition to four members of our civilian leadership, submitted their resignations today, stating that they could no longer effectively serve the United States government based on personal feelings and their opposition to the Nuclear Disarmament Treaty. General Melvin Powers, General Robert Kellerman, Admiral Frederick McConnell, General Diane Beckman, Secretary Linda Foster, Secretary Marianne O'Hare, Justice Ian Noble, and Senator Louis DeBlasio have served their country for many years, and they are all true patriots. Their service will be sorely missed.

"Let me assure you, however, that our country will continue on, just as it did yesterday, last week, last month, last year. Highly qualified people will quickly step up to fill the void created – people who can help us determine why the accident on the Arland D. Williams Memorial Bridge occurred this morning.

"As we move into a time of transition, so we also move into a time of peace. I have here with me tonight four heads of state who have come to Washington for the purpose of meeting with me to present a joint statement expressing their support for the Nuclear Disarmament Treaty. I would like to welcome President Luis da Silva of Brazil, First Minister Ian Paisley of Northern Ireland, President Boris Tadić of Serbia, and President Viktor Yuschenko of the Ukraine…"

* * *

**__****Author's Note**_: the story is not quite done. There will be one more chapter._


	24. Epilogue: Fallout

**_Chuck vs. the Seventh Day, Epilogue_**

** CAST (in order of appearance):  
**Melvin Powers - Brian Cox  
Robert Kellerman - Jim Beaver  
Frederick McConnell - John Amos  
Linda Foster - Jenny Gago  
Marianne O'Hare - Julianne Moore  
Ian Noble - George Takei  
Louis DeBlasio - Michael McGrady  
Diane Beckman - Bonita Fredericy  
Commodore Forrest Saxon - Gabriel Byrne  
Lt. Colonel John Casey - Adam Baldwin  
Bryce Larkin - Matt Bomer  
Lt. Comm. Rachel Harrison - Zoe Saldana  
Captain Will Williamson - Alex O'Loughlin  
Carina Miller - Mini Anden  
Gunnery Sgt. Mitch Tucker - Terry Crews  
Sen. Langston Graham - Tony Todd  
Dr. Samuel Tyler, DCI - John Simm  
Chuck Bartowski - Zachary Levi  
Sarah Walker Bartowski - Yvonne Strahovski

**General Melvin Powers** departed his post as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff with nary a peep. He didn't look back, and took himself completely out of the public eye – for about a week. Then, a conservative grassroots movement convinced him to declare his candidacy for President. There was a chance he could end up in the White House after all – but at least this way, it would be done legally.

**General Robert Kellerman** departed the Marine Corps, but it was not quietly. In his farewell speech as Commandant, he decried what he called the ever-progressing "softness" of the Marine Corps, and warned that if it continued, they would no longer be America's premier fighting force. The next day, Kellerman's replacement, General Layton Hargrave, said that Kellerman was a bitter old man who had no respect for the Corps.

**Admiral Frederick McConnell** took a job with General Dynamics' Electric Boat Division at Newport News, Virginia. Regardless of his political stance, the Pentagon could not deny that he was brilliant when it came to ships, and so decided that his time would be best served as a consultant for Electric Boat as they built the next generation of submarines.

**Homeland Security Secretary Linda Foster** retired from public life, returning to her home in New Mexico to write her memoirs.

**Defense Secretary Marianne O'Hare** took a job with a think tank known as Defend America. A definitely right-leaning group, their true purpose in life was just to spout off how America was constantly under terrorist threat and generally be a nuisance.

**Associate Justice Ian Noble** was offered a professorship with the law schools of Columbia University, the University of Michigan, and Chapman University. Faced with the choice between New York, Michigan, and Southern California, he almost without hesitation chose to go to Chapman – Orange County was certainly preferable, especially in the winter.

**Senator Lou DeBlasio **didn't go anywhere. Sure, he resigned, but almost immediately was hired as a lobbyist for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints. Well, he wasn't TECHNICALLY a lobbyist for them – as a 501(c)3, the LDS Church couldn't lobby, but he certainly lobbied on behalf of plenty of corporations owned by Mormons.

**General Diane Beckman** disappeared without a trace. Fifteen minutes after her final Congressional hearing, she dropped completely off the grid.

**Commodore Forrest Saxon** was reinstated to the rank of one-star Rear Admiral. He was returned to command of CTF-77, with the advisement that it would be his final posting before retirement.

**Lieutenant Colonel John Casey** resigned from the National Security Agency – or at least, what was going to be left of it after the President got through gutting it. The Air Force promoted him to full Colonel, and he returned to active duty, accepting a post with the Defense Intelligence Agency that conveniently enough kept him in Los Angeles, watching over Chuck Bartowski.

**Agent Bryce Larkin** returned to hunting Fulcrum agents. Despite the loss of their command structure, there were still suspected to be hundreds of Fulcrum agents in deep cover throughout the United States government. Bryce's goal was to eliminate them all.

**Lieutenant Commander Rachel Harrison** was promoted by the Navy to full Commander. She was also detached from CVW-7 to be Bryce Larkin's pilot for as long as he needed her services. He asked for her services on pretty much a nightly basis – and not just in a professional fashion.

**Captain Will Williamson** was promoted by the Marine Corps to Major. He returned to MCAS Miramar and returned to flying F/A-18 Hornets.

**Special Agent Carina Miller** returned to Cedar City, Utah, where she continued to bust meth producers and dealers. She would occasionally send a reminder to Chuck that she intended to someday collect on his debt. When Sarah called her to ask her to knock it off, Carina suggested they could turn it into a threesome. Sarah hung up on her.

**Gunnery Sergeant Mitch Tucker** was promoted by the Marine Corps to Master Sergeant. He returned to Moab as the manager of Grand County Airport. His employees noticed that he had a certain red-haired visitor who flew in at least once a week. They also noticed that those visits almost always seemed to end with him calling one of them to untie him from the headboard of his bed.

**Senator Langston Graham** returned to sitting on the Select Committee on Intelligence for the United States Senate. He structured a very careful reduction of the budget for the Intersect Project, and made sure it would be funded for a very, very long time.

**Director Sam Tyler** returned to the everyday duties of the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. His first task was to set up a special department to root out any members of Fulcrum within the CIA. On the first day the department operated, ten members of the Agency failed to show up for work. "Guilty, guilty, guilty," Tyler laughed upon hearing this.

**Chuck and Sarah Bartowski** went back to Los Angeles, to their kids, to their lives. Chuck went back to the day-to-day running of Nerd Cave Video Games, and Sarah went back to working analysis for the CIA at the downtown federal building.

And Chuck had an anniversary to plan for.

* * *

**2:54 A.M., Pacific Daylight Time**

**March 8****th****, 2012**

**Los Angeles, California**

Chuck definitely pleased Sarah with his plans for their anniversary. He had bought her a pair of emerald and gold earrings that complemented the emerald and diamond pendant that he got for her. That went along with an exquisite dinner at Fogo de Chão in Beverly Hills, and the whole combination resulted in Chuck and Sarah both falling asleep very happy and very, very satisfied.

Just before three o'clock, Sarah woke up and found herself very thirsty. She went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, and was heading back to the bedroom, when she heard a sound from the kids room.

She listened closely. John and Lisa both seemed to be awake, and were both talking. "Ful-cum," Lisa was saying. "Ful-cum."

Sarah smiled. Lisa had been saying that ever since she had accidentally had that flash three weeks before. But then she heard John say it too. "Ful-cum," he said.

Sarah's eyes widened. John hadn't had the flash. He shouldn't know what Fulcrum was. Why was he saying it? What had caused him to flash?

She quietly approached the twins' bedroom door, and opened it, reaching it and turning on the light –

And standing on the other side of the room, dressed all in black, was Diane Beckman. She had a Walther P9 handgun in her right hand, and it was pointed directly at Sarah.

"Hello, Agent Walker," Beckman said. "Care to explain to me why these two little brats are saying 'Fulcrum' over and over?"

"General Beckman," Sarah said quietly, "please just leave. You don't need to be here."

"No, I think I do," Beckman snarled. "You ruined my life, but I think I've found my redemption! These two recognized me as being part of Fulcrum because they're little baby Intersects, aren't they?"

* * *

Chuck had come somewhat awake when Sarah left the bed, and had stayed up, waiting for her return. When she didn't return after a few minutes, he grew a little concerned.

Then he heard voices down the hall. One was clearly Sarah. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but it didn't sound good.

And then he heard a voice that chilled him to the bone. It was General Beckman. "These two recognized me as being part of Fulcrum because they're little baby Intersects, aren't they?"

"Oh, God," Chuck whispered. He rolled across the bed to Sarah's side, praying she had her gun.

She didn't. The Colt M1911A1 was in the nightstand. Chuck grabbed it, and slowly crept out the door of the bedroom, down the hall toward the twins room.

"Imagine how much money I could make off of these two!" he heard Beckman continue. "How much do you think the Mossad would pay for a sixteen month old human Intersect? How about MI-6?"

"General, please, those are my CHILDREN," Sarah pleaded.

"You should have thought of that before destroying everything I worked for, Agent Walker," Beckman replied, with a fatal finality in her voice.

Chuck winced as he heard Beckman's gun go off. The bullet struck Sarah in the abdomen, and she staggered backward.

Chuck spun around, catching Sarah in his left arm as she fell, and bringing her Colt up in his right hand. As soon as it leveled with Beckman's chest, he pulled the trigger – once, twice, three times.

An enormous bloom of red appeared on Beckman's torso as she staggered backward. She slammed into the bulletproof window, looked down in disbelief – and then slumped to the floor, dead, leaving a streak of blood on the wall behind her.

John and Lisa were both bawling, but Chuck could barely hear them. He was too concerned for Sarah, as he laid her down on the floor.

"G-good shooting, b-babe," she whispered. She was bleeding heavily.

Chuck grabbed the receiving blanket off the changing table and folded it up. "Hold this against your stomach, HARD," he instructed her. "I know it might hurt, but you've gotta do it!"

Running back to the bedroom, he tossed the gun on the bed, and grabbed his iPhone. With hands shaking, he dialed John Casey's number. "Come on, pick up, pick up!" Chuck muttered as he went back out into the hallway where Sarah was.

"'llo?"

"Casey! It's Chuck. Sarah's been shot, and I have a dead former NSA director in my kids' bedroom."

"Shit," John Casey uttered. "Call 911. I'll be right there."

And the phone went dead. Chuck dialed again, and held the phone to his ear.

"911 Emergency Response, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"Uh, my wife's been shot… gunshot wound to the abdomen… she's a Caucasian female, twenty-nine years old, five foot nine, about a hundred thirty pounds…"

"Alright, sir, please remain calm. We have an ambulance on the way right now. What is your location?"

"4320 Saint Clair Avenue, in Studio City," Chuck said. Sarah's grip on his hand suddenly tightened, almost painfully so, and she whimpered in pain.

He looked down at her. Her face was white and contorted in pain, and blood was still seeping out from under the receiving blanket.

"Please hurry."

* * *

**_Team Chuck will return this May in ___****Chuck vs. the Ring of Fire**_._


End file.
